" 


CYNTHIA 

By    LEONARD    MERRICK 

¥ 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

MAURICE  HEWLETT 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright,  1912, 
BY   MITCHELL.   KENNERLY 


Copyright,  1919, 
BY   E.    P.    DUTTON   AND    COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


First  American  Definitive  Edition,  with  Introduction  by 
Maurice  Hewlett,  limited   to  1550  copies 
(of  which  only  1500  were  for  sale) 
Published   June   2,    1919,   Out   of    Print    June    9,    1919. 
Second  American  Edition,  June  23,  1919. 
Third  "  "  July,  1919. 

Fourth         "  "         October,  1919. 

Fifth  "  "  "        1919. 


Printed  In  the  United  States  of  America 


INTRODUCTION 

My  first  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Merrick's 
engaging  and  stimulating  muse  was  made  in  the 
pages  of  Violet  Moses,  an  early  work,  which  ap- 
peared, I  remember,  in  three  volumes.  Reading 
it  again  in  the  light  of  my  appreciation  of  what 
its  author  has  done  since,  I  think  of  it  now  as  I 
felt  of  it  then.  It  has  great  promise,  and  though 
its  texture  is  slight  its  fibres  are  of  steel.  It 
shows  the  light  hand,  which  has  grown  no  heavier, 
though  it  has  grown  surer,  the  little  effervescence 
of  cynicism,  with  never  a  hiccough  in  it,  the 
underlying,  deeply-funded  sympathy  with  real 
things,  great  things  and  fine  things,  and  the 
seriousness  of  aim  which,  tantalisingly,  stops 
short  just  where  you  want  it  to  go  on,  and  pro- 
vokes the  reader  to  get  every  book  of  Mr.  Mer- 
rick's as  it  appears,  just  to  see  him  let  himself 
go — which  he  never  does.  He  is  one  of  the  most 
discreet  dissectors  of  the  human  heart  we  have. 

In  Violet  Moses  Mr.  Merrick  avoided  the  great 
issue  after  coming  up  against  it  more  than  once. 
So  did  he  in  The  Quaint  Companions,  a  maturer 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

but  less  ambitious  study.  I  don't  know  why  he 
avoided  h  in  Violet's  case,  unless  it  was  because 
he  found  it  too  big  a  matter  for  his  light  battery. 
In  the  Companions'  case  I  do  know.  It  was 
because  he  came  upon  another  problem  which 
interested  him  more,  a  problem  with  a  senti- 
mental attraction  far  more  potent  than  any  he 
could  have  got  out  of  miscegenation.  The  result 
was  the  growth,  out  of  a  rather  ugly  root,  of  a 
charming  and  tender  idyll  of  two  poets,  an  idyll, 
nevertheless,  with  a  psychological  crux  involved 
in  its  delicate  tracery.  All  this  seems  a  long 
way  from  Cynthia,  which  is  my  immediate  busi- 
ness, but  is  not  so  in  truth.  In  Cynthia  (which, 
I  believe,  followed  Violet)  you  have  a  problem 
of  psychology  laid  out  before  you,  and  again  Mr. 
Merrick  does  not,  I  think,  fairly  tackle  it.  But 
he  fails  to  tackle  it,  not  because  it  is  too  big  for 
his  guns,  as  Violet's  was,  and  not  because  he  finds 
another  which  he  likes  better,  as  he  did  when  he 
was  upon  The  Companions,  but  because,  I  am 
going  to  suggest,  he  found  it  too  small.  He  took 
up  his  positions,  opened  his  attack,  and  the 
enemy  in  his  trenches  dissolved  in  mist. 

The  problem  with  which  Cynthia  opens  is  the 
familiar  one  of  the  novelist,  considered  as  such, 
and  as  lover,  husband,  father  and  citizen.  Now 
it's  an  odd  thing,  but  not  so  odd  as  it  seems  at 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

first  blush,  that  while  you  may  conceive  a  poet 
in  these  relations  and  succeed  in  interesting  your 
readers,  you  will  fail  with  a  novelist.  I  cannot 
now  remember  a  single  interesting  novel  abou£ 
a  novelist.  There  is  Pendennis,  of  course;  but 
who  believes  that  Pen  was  a  great  novelist,  or 
cares  what  kind  of  a  novelist  he  was?  Who 
cares  about  Walter  Lorraine?  Would  anybody 
give  twopence  to  read  it?  The  reason  is  that 
in  the  poet  the  manifestations  of  literary  genius 
are  direct  and  explicit — some  are  susceptible  of 
quotation,  some  may  be  cut  out  with  the  scissors 
— while  in  the  novelist  they  are  oblique  and  im- 
plied. Humphrey  Kent  in  Cynthia  is  in  no 
sense  an  explicit  genius ;  we  are  not,  in  fact,  told 
that  he  was  a  genius  at  all.  His  technique  seems 
to  have  been  that  of  Mr.  George  Moore,  then 
rather  fashionable.  The  book  puts  it  no  higher 
than  this,  that  the  hero,  with  an  obvious  bent  for 
writing,  marries  in  a  hurry  and  then  finds  out 
that  he  cannot  be  an  honest  man  and  support 
his  wife  and  child  by  the  same  stroke.  It  is  not 
whether  he  can  be  a  good  novelist  and  a  good 
lover  too,  but  whether  he  can  be  a  good  novelist 
and  pay  his  bills.  That's  not  very  exciting, 
though  George  Gissing  in  New  Grub  Street  drew 
out  of  it  a  squalid  and  miserable  tale  which, 
once  begun,  had  to  be  finished.     Luckily,  in 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

Cynthia,  Mr.  Merrick  finds  a  secondary  theme, 
and  handles  it  so  delicately  and  so  tenderly  that 
the  book  has  an  abiding  charm  because  of  it. 
That  theme  is  the  growth  of  Cynthia's  soul. 

I  myself  am  one  of  Cynthia's  victims,  and  I 
am  sure  that  Mr.  Merrick  is  another.  He 
sketches  her  with  admirable  reticence  in  the  be- 
ginning, where  she  is  shown  to  us  as  very  little 
more  than  a  pretty  girl.  His  strokes  are  few  and 
sure.  But  she  grows  from  chapter  to  chapter, 
and  at  the  end,  after  the  tragic  crisis,  she  sweeps 
onward  to  the  sentimental  crisis  which  crowns  the 
tale  of  her  married  life  with  a  dignity  and  grave 
beauty  which  justify  a  belief  in  Hestia,  even 
now,  when  modern  testimony  and  practice  alike 
are  against  such  a  belief.  She  justifies  Mr. 
Merrick's  conclusion  too.  It  is  seldom  enough 
that  we  are  able  to  believe  in  the  happy  solution 
of  such  troubles  as  he  has  traced  out  in  Cynthia. 
Cynics  against  inclination,  we  feel  that  the  dog 
will  return  to  his  vomit  after  the  easy  reconcilia- 
tion and  facile  tears  upon  Hestia's  generous 
bosom.  Not  so  here.  Cynthia  has  got  her 
Humphrey  for  what  he  is  worth,  and  will  hold 
him.  She  is  one  of  Mr,  Merrick's  loveliest 
women;  and  he  has  made  many  lovely  women. 

Maurice  Hewlett. 


CYNTHIA 


CHAPTER  I 

Two  friends  were  sitting  together  outside  the 
Cafe  des  Tribunaux  at  Dieppe.  One  of  them 
was  falling  in  love;  the  other,  an  untidy  and 
morose  little  man,  was  wasting  advice.  It  was 
the  hour  of  coffee  and  liqueurs,  on  an  August 
evening. 

"You  are,"  said  the  adviser  irritably,  "at  the 
very  beginning  of  a  career.  You  have  been  sur- 
prisingly fortunate ;  there's  scarcely  a  novelist  in 
England  who  wouldn't  be  satisfied  with  such 
reviews  as  yours,  and  it's  your  first  book.  Think : 
twelve  months  ago  you  were  a  clerk  in  the  city, 
and  managed  to  place  about  three  short  stories  a 
year  at  a  guinea  each.  Then  your  aunt  what- 
was-her-name  left  you  the  thousand  pounds,  and 
you  chucked  your  berth  and  sat  down  to  a  novel. 
'Nothing  happens  but  the  unforeseen' — the  result 
justified  you.  You  sold  your  novel;  you  got  a 
hundred  quid  for  it ;  and  The  Saturday,  and  The 
Spectator,  and  every  paper  whose  opinion  is 
worth  a  rush,  hails  you  as  a  coming  light.  For 
you  to  consider  marrying  now  would  be  flying 
in  the  face  of  a  special  providence." 

1 


2  CYNTHIA 

"Why?"  said  Humphrey  Kent. 

"'Why'!  Are  you  serious?  Because  your 
income  is  an  unknown  quantity.  Because  you've 
had  a  literary  success,  not  a  popular  one.  Be- 
cause, if  you  keep  single,  you've  a  comfortable 
life  in  front  of  you.  Because  you'd  be  a  damned 
fool." 

"The  climax  is  comprehensive,  if  it  isn't  con- 
vincing. But  the  discussion  is  a  trifle  'previous,' 
eh?  I  can't  marry  you,  my  pretty  maid,  et 
cetera." 

"You  are  with  her  all  day,"  said  Turquand — 
"I  conclude  she  likes  you.  And  the  mother 
countenances  it." 

"There's  really  nothing  to  countenance;  and, 
remember,  they  haven't  any  idea  of  my  position: 
they  meet  me  at  a  fashionable  hotel,  they  had 
read  the  book,  and  they  saw  The  Times  review. 
What  do  they  know  of  literary  earnings?  the 
father  is  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  I  believe.  I 
am  an  impostor !" 

"You  should  have  gone  to  the  little  show  I 
recommended  on  the  quay,  then.  I  find  it  good 
enough." 

Kent  laughed  and  stretched  himself. 

"I  am  rewarding  industry,"  he  said.  "For 
once  I  wallow.  I  came  into  the  money,  and  I 
put  it  in  a  bank,  and  by  my  pen,  which  is 


CYNTHIA  3 

mightier  than  the  sword,  I've  replaced  all  I  drew 
to  live  during  the  year.  Ain't  I  entitled  to  a 
brief  month's  splash?  Besides,  I've  never  said 
I  want  to  marry — I  don't  know  what  you're 
hacking  at." 

"You  haven't  'said'  it,  but  the  danger  is  about 
as  plain  as  pica  to  the  average  intelligence,  all 
the  same.  My  son,  how  old  are  you — twenty- 
seven,  isn't  it?  Pack  your  bag,  ask  for  your  bill, 
and  go  back  with  me  by  the  morning  boat ;  and, 
if  you're  resolved  to  make  an  ass  of  yourself  over 
a  woman,  go  and  live  in  gilded  infamy  and  buy 
sealskin  jackets  and  jewellery  while  your  legacy 
lasts.     I'll  forgive  you  that." 

"The  prescription  wouldn't  be  called  ortho- 
dox?" 

"You'd  find  it  cheaper  than  matrimony  in  the 
long-run,  I  promise  you.  Now  and  again,  when 
some  man  plays  ducks  and  drakes  with  a  fortune 
for  a  cocotte  there  are  shrieks  enough  to  wake  his 
ancestors;  but  marriage  ruins  a  precious  sight 
more  men  every  year  than  the  demi-monde  and 
the  turf  and  the  tables  put  together,  and  nobody 
shrieks  at  all — except  the  irrepressible  children. 
Did  it  never  occur  to  you  that  the  price  paid  for 
the  virtuous  woman  is  the  most  exorbitant  price 
known  in  an  expensive  world?" 

"No,"  said  Kent  shortly,  "it  never  did" 


4  CYNTHIA 

"And  they  call  you  'an  acute  observer' !  Mar- 
riage is  Man's  greatest  extravagance." 

"The  apothegm  excepted.  It  sounds  like  a 
dissipated  copybook." 

"It's  a  fact,  upon  my  soul.  I  tell  you,  a  sensi- 
ble girl  would  shudder  at  the  thought  of  entrust- 
ing her  future  to  a  man  improvident  enough  to 
propose  to  her;  a  fellow  capable  of  marrying  a 
woman  is  the  sport  of  a  reckless  and  undisci- 
plined nature  that  she  should  beware  of." 

"The  end  is  curac/m-and-brandy,"  said  Kent, 
*'and  in  your  best  vein.  What  else?  You'll 
contradict  yourself  with  brilliance  in  a  moment 
if  you  go  on." 

The  journalist  dissembled  a  grin,  and  Kent, 
gazing  down  the  sunny  little  street,  inhaled  his 
cigarette  pleasurably.  To  suppose  that  Miss 
Walford  would  ever  be  his  wife  looked  to  him 
so  chimerical  that  his  companion's  warnings  did 
not  disturb  him,  yet  he  was  sufficiently  attracted 
by  her  to  find  it  exciting  that  a  third  person  could 
think  it  likely.  He  was  the  son  of  a  man  who 
had  once  been  very  wealthy,  and  who,  having 
attempted  to  repair  injudicious  investments  by 
rasher  speculation,  had  died  owning  little  more 
than  enough  to  defray  the  cost  of  his  funeral. 
At  the  age  of  nineteen  Humphrey  had  realised 
that,  with  no  stock-in-trade  beyond  an  education 


CYNTHIA  5 

and  a  bundle  of  rejected  manuscripts,  it  was  in- 
cumbent on  him  to  fight  the  world  unassisted, 
and,  suppressing  his  literary  ambitions  as  likely 
to  tell  against  him,  he  had  betaken  himself  to 
some  connections  who  throve  in  commerce  and 
had  been  socially  agreeable.  To  be  annihilated 
by  a  sense  of  your  own  deficiencies,  seek  an  ap- 
pointment at  the  hands  of  relations.  The  boy 
registered  the  aphorism,  and  withdrew.  When 
4 'life"  means  merely  a  struggle  to  sustain  exist- 
ence, it  is  not  calculated  to  foster  optimism,  and 
the  optimistic  point  of  view  is  desirable  for  the 
production  of  popular  English  fiction.  His 
prospect  of  achieving  many  editions  would  have 
been  greater  if  his  father  had  been  satisfied  with 
five  per  cent.  He  shifted  as  best  he  could,  and 
garnered  various  experiences  which  he  would 
have  been  sorry  to  think  would  be  cited  by  his 
biographer,  if  he  ever  had  one.  "Poverty  is  no 
disgrace,"  but  there  are  few  disgraces  that  cause 
such  keen  humiliations.  Eventually  he  found 
regular  employment  in  the  office  of  a  stranger, 
and,  making  Turquand's  acquaintance  in  the 
lodging-house  at  which  he  obtained  a  bedroom, 
contemplated  him  with  respect  and  envy.  Tur- 
quand  was  sub-editing  The  Outpost,  a  hybrid 
weekly  for  which  he  wrote  a  little  of  what  he 
thought  and  much  that  he  disapproved,  in  con- 


6  CYNTHIA 

sideration  of  a  modest  salary.  The  difference 
in  their  years  was  not  too  great  to  preclude  con- 
fidences. An  intimacy  grew  between  the  pair 
over  their  evening  pipes  in  the  arid  enclosure  to 
which  the  landlady's  key  gave  them  access;  and 
it  was  transplanted  to  joint  quarters  embellished 
with  their  several  possessions,  chiefly  portman- 
teaus and  photographs,  equally  battered.  The 
elder  man,  perceiving  that  there  was  distinction 
in  the  unsuccessful  stories  displayed  to  him,  im- 
parted a  good  deal  of  desultory  advice,  of  which 
the  most  effectual  part  was  not  the  assurance 
that  the  literary  temperament  was  an  affliction, 
and  authorship  a  synonym  for  despair.  The 
younger  listened,  sighed,  and  burned.  Aching 
to  be  famous,  and  fettered  to  a  clerk's  stool,  he 
tugged  at  his  chains.  He  had  begun  to  doubt 
his  force  to  burst  them,  when  he  was  apprised, 
to  his  unspeakable  amazement,  that  a  maternal 
aunt,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since  he  was  a  school- 
boy, had  bequeathed  him  a  thousand  pounds. 

Dieppe  had  dined,  and  the  Grande  Rue  was 
astir.  He  watched  the  passers-by  with  interest. 
In  the  elation  of  his  success  he  was  equal  to 
tackling  another  novel  on  the  morrow,  and  he 
saw  material  in  everything:  in  the  chattering 
party  of  American  girls  rumiing  across  the  road 
to  eat  more  ices   at  the  pastrycook's;  in  the 


^  ^  (^  CYNTHIA  7 

coquettish  dealer  in  rosaries  and  Lives  of  the 
Saints,  who  had  put  up  her  shutters  for  the  night 
and  was  bound  for  the  Opera;  in  the  little  boy- 
soldiers  from  the  barracks,  swaggering  every- 
where in  uniforms  several  sizes  too  big  for  them. 
Sentences  from  the  reviews  that  he  was  still  re- 
ceiving bubbled  through  his  consciousness  deli- 
riously, and  he  wished,  swelling  with  gratitude, 
that  the  men  who  wrote  them  were  beside  him, 
that  he  might  be  introduced,  and  grip  their 
hands,  and  try  to  express  the  inexpressible  in 
words. 

"I  should  like  to  live  here,  Turk,"  he  remarked : 
"the  atmosphere  is  right.  It's  suggestive,  stimu- 
lating. When  I  see  a  peasant  leaning  out  of  a 
window  in  France,  I  want  to  write  verses  about 
her ;  when  I  see  the  same  thing  at  home,  I  only 
notice  she's  dirty." 

"Ah!"  said  Turquand,  "that's  another  reason 
why  you  had  better  go  back  with  me  to-morrow. 
The  tendency  to  write  verses  leads  to  the  casual 
ward.  Let  us  go  and  watch  the  Insolent  Opu- 
lence losing  its  francs." 

The  Casino  was  beginning  to  refill,  and  the 
path  and  lawn  were  gay  with  the  flutter  of 
toilettes  when  they  reached  the  gates.  Two  of 
the  figures  approaching  the  rooms  were  familiar 
to  the  novelist,  and  he  discovered  their  presence 


8  CYNTHIA 

with  a  distinct  shock,  though  his  gaze  had  been 
scanning  the  crowd  in  search  of  them. 

"There  are  the  Walfords,"  he  said. 

The  other  grunted — he  also  had  recognised  a 
girl  in  mauve;  and  Kent  watched  her  silently 
as  long  as  she  remained  in  view.  He  knew  that 
he  had  nerves  when  he  saw  Miss  Walford.  The 
sight  of  her  aroused  a  feeling  of  restlessness  in 
him  latterly  which  demanded  her  society  for  its 
relief;  and  he  had  not  denied  to  himself  that 
when  a  stranger,  sitting  behind  him  yesterday  in 
the  salon  de  lecture,  had  withdrawn  a  handker- 
chief redolent  of  the  corylopsis  which  Miss  Wal- 
ford affected,  it  had  provided  him  with  a  sensa- 
tion profoundly  absurd. 

If  he  had  nerves,  however,  there  was  no  occa- 
sion to  parade  the  fact,  and  he  repressed  impa- 
tience laudably.  It  was  half  an  hour  before  the 
ladies  were  met.  Objecting  to  be  foolish,  he  felt, 
nevertheless,  that  Cynthia  Walford  was  an  ex- 
cuse for  folly  as  she  turned  to  him  on  the  terrace 
with  her  faint  smile  of  greeting;  felt,  with  un- 
reasoning gratification,  that  Turquand  must 
acknowledge  it. 

She  was  a  fair,  slight  girl,  with  dreamy  blue 
eyes  bewitchingly  lashed,  and  lips  so  delicately 
modelled  that  the  faint  smile  always  appeared 
a  great  tribute  upon  them.     She  was  no  less 


CYNTHIA  9 

beautiful  for  her  manifest  knowledge  that  she 
was  a  beauty,  and  though  she  could  not  have 
been  more  than  twenty-two,  she  had  the  air  of 
carrying  her  loveliness  as  indifferently  as  her 
frocks — which  tempted  a  literary  man  to  destruc- 
tion. She  accepted  admiration  like  an  entremets 
at  a  table  d'hote — something  included  in  the 
menu  and  arriving  as  a  matter  of  course ;  but  her 
acceptance  was  so  graceful  that  it  was  delightful 
to  bend  to  her  and  offer  it. 

Kent  asked  if  they  were  going  in  to  the  con- 
cert, and  Mrs.  Walford  said  they  were  not.  It 
was  far  too  warm  to  sit  indoors  to  listen  to  that 
kind  of  music !  She  found  Dieppe  insufferably 
hot,  and  ridiculously  overrated.  Now,  Trouville 
was  really  lively ;  didn't  he  think  so  ? 

He  said  he  did  not  know  Trouville. 

"Don't  you?  Oh,  it  is  ever  so  much  better; 
very  jolly — really  most  jolly.  We  were  there 
last  year,  and  enjoyed  it  immensely.  We — we 
had  such  a  time!"  She  giggled  loudly.  "How 
long  are  you  gentlemen  remaining?" 

"Mr.  Turquand  is  'deserting'  to-morrow,"  he 
said.  "I?  Oh,  I  shall  have  to  leave  in  about 
a  week,  I'm  afraid." 

"You  said  that  a  week  ago,"  murmured  Miss 
Walford. 


10  CYNTHIA 

"I  like  the  place,"  he  confessed;  "I  find  it 
very  pleasant,  myself." 

Mrs.  Walford  threw  up  her  hands  with  a 
scream  of  expostulation.  Her  face  was  elderly, 
despite  her  attentions  to  it,  but  in  her  manner 
she  was  often  a  great  deal  more  youthful  than 
her  daughter ;  indeed,  while  the  girl  had  already 
acquired  something  of  the  serenity  of  a  woman, 
the  woman  was  superficially  reverting  to  the  art- 
lessness  of  a  girl. 

"What  is  there  to  like?  Dieppe  is  the  Casino, 
and  the  Casino  is  Dieppe!" 

"But  the  Casino  is  very  agreeable,"  he  said, 
his  glance  wandering  from  her. 

"And  the  charges  are  perfectly  monstrous. 
Though,  of  course,  you  extravagant  young  men 
don't  mind  that!" 

"A  friend  might  call  me  young,"  said  Tur- 
quand  gloomily;  "my  worst  enemy  couldn't  call 
me  extravagant." 

"Oh,  I  mind  some  of  the  charges,"  returned 
Kent.    "I  hate  being  'done.'  " 

She  was  pleased  to  hear  him  say  so.  Her 
chief  requirement  of  a  young  man  was  that  he 
should  be  well  provided  for,  but  if  he  had  the 
good  feeling  to  exercise  a  nice  economy  till  he 
became  engaged,  it  was  an  additional  recom- 


CYNTHIA  11 

mendation.  Her  giggle  was  as  violent  as  before, 
though. 

"Oh,  I  daresay!"  she  exclaimed  facetiously; 
"I'm  always  being  taken  in;  I  don't  believe  those 
stories  any  longer.  Do  you  remember  Willy 
Holmes,  Cynthia,  and  the  tales  he  used  to  tell 
me?  I  used  to  think  that  young  man  was  so 
steady,  I  was  always  quoting  him!  And  it 
turned  out  he  was  a  regular  scapegrace  and 
everybody  knew  it  all  the  time,  and  had  been 
laughing  at  me.  I've  given  up  believing  in  any 
one,  Mr.  Kent — in  anyone,  do  you  hear?"  She 
shook  the  splendours  of  her  hat  at  him,  and 
gasped  and  gurgled  archly.  "I've  no  doubt 
you're  every  bit  as  bad  as  the  rest!" 

He  answered  with  some  inanity.  Miss  Wal- 
ford  asked  him  a  question,  and  he  took  a  seat 
beside  her  in  replying.  Turquand  sat  down  too. 
Twilight  was  falling,  and  a  refreshing  breeze 
began  to  make  itself  felt.  A  fashionable  sea 
purled  on  the  sand  below  with  elegant  decorum. 
In  the  building  the  concert  commenced,  and 
snatches  of  orchestration  reached  them  through 
the  chatter  of  American  and  English  and  French 
from  the  occupants  of  the  chairs  behind.  Pres- 
ently Mrs.  Walford  wanted  to  go  and  play  petits 
chevaux.  The  sub-editor,  involuntarily  attached 
to  the  party,  accompanied  her,  and  Kent  and  the 


12  CYNTHIA 

girl  followed.  The  crowd  round  the  tables  was 
fairly  large,  but  Turquand  prevailed  on  the  dame 
to  see  that  there  was  space  for  four  persons  in 
a  group.  She  complimented  him  on  his  dexter- 
ity, but  immediately  afterwards  became  "fa- 
tigued," and  begged  him  to  take  her  to  the  "set- 
tee in  the  corner."  The  party  was  now  divided 
into  couples. 


CHAPTER  II 

He  had  appreciated  the  manoeuvres  suffi- 
ciently to  feel  no  surprise  when  she  found  the 
room  "stifling"  ten  minutes  later  and  said  that 
she  must  return  to  the  terrace.  She  had  shown 
such  small  desire  for  his  companionship  hitherto, 
however,  that  he  was  momentarily  uncertain 
which  tete-a-tete  was  the  one  that  she  was  anxious 
to  prolong. 

"Pouf !"  she  exclaimed,  as  they  emerged  into 
the  air.  "It  was  unbearable.  Where  are  the 
others?     Didn't  they  come  out  too?" 

"They  have  no  idea  we've  gone,"  said  Tur- 
quand  dryly. 

She  was  greatly  astonished;  she  had  to  turn 
before  she  could  credit  it. 

"I  thought  they  were  behind  us,"  she  repeated 
several  times.  "I'm  sure  they  saw  us  move. 
Oh,  well,  they'll  find  it  out  in  a  minute,  I  expect! 
Nevermind!" 

They  strolled  up  and  down. 

"Sorry  you're  going,  Mr.  Turquand?  Your 
friend  will  miss  you  very  much." 

13 


14  CYNTHIA 

"I  don't  think  so,"  he  answered.  "He  knew 
I  was  only  running  over  for  a  few  days." 

"He  tells  me  it  is  the  first  holiday  he  has  taken 
for  years,"  she  said.  "His  profession  seems  to 
engross  him.  I  suppose  it  is  an  engrossing  one. 
But  he  oughtn't  to  exhaust  his  strength.  I 
needn't  ask  you  if  you've  read  his  novel.  What 
do  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  think  it  extremely  clever  work,"  said 
Turquand. 

"And  it's  been  a  great  success,  too,  eh?  'One 
of  the  books  of  the  year,'  The  Times  called  it." 

"It  has  certainly  given  him  a  literary  position." 

"How  splendid!"  she  said.  "Yes,  that's  what 
I  thought  it:  'extremely  clever,'  brilliant — most 
brilliant!  His  parents  must  be  very  proud  of 
him?" 

"They're  dead,"  said  Turquand. 

Mrs.  Walford  was  surprised  again.  She  had 
"somehow  taken  it  for  granted  that  they  were 
living,"  and  as  she  understood  that  he  had  no 
brothers  or  sisters,  it  must  be  very  lonely  for 
him? 

"He  sees  a  good  deal  of  me"  said  her  escort, 
"and  I'm  quite  a  festive  sort  of  person  when  you 
know  me." 

Her  giggle  announced  that  she  found  this 
entertaining,  but  the  approval  did  not  loosen  his 


CYNTHIA  15 

tongue.  She  fanned  herself  strenuously,  and 
decided  that,  besides  being  untidy,  he  was  dense. 

"Of  course,  in  one  way,"  she  pursued,  "his 
condition  is  an  advantage  to  him.  Literary 
people  have  to  work  so  hard  if  they  depend  on 
their  writing,  don't  they?" 

"I  do,"  he  assented,  "I'm  sorry  to  say." 

His  constant  obtrusion  of  himself  into  the 
matter  annoyed  her  very  much.  She  had  neither 
inquired  nor  cared  if  he  worked  hard,  and  she 
felt  disposed  to  say  so.  Turquand,  who  realised 
now  why  honours  had  been  thrust  upon  him  this 
evening,  regretted  that  loyalty  to  Kent  prevented 
his  doing  him  what  he  felt  would  be  the  greatest 
service  that  could  be  rendered  and  removing  the 
temptation  of  the  mauve  girl  permanently  from 
his  path. 

"With  talent  and  private  means  our  author  is 
fortunate?" 

"I  often  tell  him  so,"  he  said. 

"If  it  doesn't  tempt  him  to  rest  on  his  oars," 
she  added  delightedly.  "Wealth  has  its  dangers. 
Young  men  will  be  young  men!" 

"  'Wealth'  is  a  big  word,"  said  he.  "Kent 
certainly  can't  be  called  'wealthy.'  " 

"But  he  doesn't  depend  on  his  pen?"  she  cried 
with  painful  carelessness. 


16  CYNTHIA 

"He  has  some  private  means,  I  believe;  in 
fact,  I  know  it." 

"I  am  so  glad — so  glad  for  him.  Now  I  have 
no  misgivings  about  his  future  at  all.  .  .  .  Have 
youf 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  follow  you." 

She  played  with  her  fan  airily. 

"He  is  certain  to  succeed,  I  mean;  he  needn't 
fear  anything,  as  he  has  a  competence.  Oh,  I 
know  what  these  professions  are,"  she  went  on, 
laughing.  "My  son  is  in  the  artistic  world,  we 
are  quite  behind  the  scenes.  I  know  how  hard-up 
some  of  the  biggest  professionals  are  when  they 
have  nothing  but  their  profession  to  depend  on. 
A  profession  is  so  precarious — shocking — even 
when  one  has  aptitude  for  it." 

"Kent  has  more  than  'aptitude,'  "  he  said.  "He 
has  power.  Perhaps  he'll  always  work  too  much 
for  himself  and  the  reviewers  to  attract  the 
widest  public.  Perhaps  he's  a  trifle  inclined  to 
over-do  the  analytical  element  in  his  stuff;  but 
that's  the  worst  that  can  be  said.  And,  then,  it's 
a  question  of  taste.  For  myself,  I'm  a  believer, 
in  the  introspective  school,  and  I  think  his 
method's  It." 

"Schools"  and  "methods"  were  meaningless  to 
the  lady  in  such  a  connection.  Novels  were 
novels,  and  they  were  either  "good"  or  they  were 


CYNTHIA  IT 

"rubbish,"  if  she  understood  anything  about  them 
— and  she  had  read  them  all  her  life.  She  looked 
perplexed,  and  reiterated  the  phrase  that  she  had 
already  used. 

"Oh,  extremely  clever,  brilliant — most  bril- 
liant, really!    I  quite  agree  with  you." 

"Your  son  writes,  did  you  say,  Mrs.  Walford?" 

"Oh  no,  not  writes — no!  No,  my  son  sings. 
He  sings.  He  is  studying  for  the  operatic  stage." 
Her  tone  couldn't  have  been  more  impressive  if 
she  had  said  he^was  de  Reszke.  "His  voice  is 
quite  magnificent." 

"Really!"  he  replied  with  interest.  "That's  a 
great  gift — a  voice." 

"He  is  'coming  out'  soon,"  she  said.  "He — 
er — he  could  get  an  engagement  at  any  moment, 
but — he  is  so  conscientious.  He  feels  he  must 
do  himself  justice  when  he  makes  his  debut.  Jus- 
tice. In  professional  circles  he  is  thought  an  im- 
mense amount  of — immense!" 

"Has  he  sung  at  any  concerts?" 

"In  private,"  she  explained — "socially.  He 
visits  among  musicians  a  great  deal.  And  of 
course  it  makes  it  very  lively  for  us.  He  is  quite 
— er — in  the  swim !" 

"You're  to  be  congratulated  on  your  family," 
said  Turquand.  "With  such  a  son,  and  a  daugh- 
ter like  Miss  Walford " 


18  CYNTHIA 

"Yes,  she  is  very  much  admired,"  she  ad- 
mitted— "very  much!  But  a  strange  girl,  Mr. 
Turquand.    You  wouldn't  believe  how  strange!" 

He  did  not  press  her  to  put  him  to  the  test, 
but  she  supplied  the  particulars  as  if  glad  of  the 
opportunity.  He  remarked  that,  in  narrating 
matters  of  which  she  was  proud,  she  adopted  a 
breathless,  staccato  delivery,  which  provoked  the 
suspicion  that  she  was  inventing  the  facts  as  she 
went  on. 

"She  is  most  peculiar,"  she  insisted.  "The 
matches  she  has  refused !    Appalling !" 

"No?"  he  said. 

"A  Viscount!"  she  gasped.  "She  refused  a 
Viscount  in  Monte  Carlo  last  year.  A  splendid 
fellow!  Enormously  wealthy.  Perfectly  wild 
about  her.    She  wouldn't  look  at  him." 

"You  astonish  me,"  he  murmured. 

Mrs.  Walford  shook  her  head  speechlessly, 
with  closed  eyes. 

"And  there  were  others,"  she  said  in  a  reviving 
spasm — "dazzling  positions!  Treated  them  like 
dirt.  She  said,  if  she  didn't  care  for  a  man, 
nothing  would  induce  her.  What  can  one  do 
with  such  a  romantic  goose?  Be  grateful  that 
you  aren't  a  mother,  Mr.  Turquand." 

"Some  day,"  he  opined,  without  returning 
thanks,  "the  young  lady  will  be  induced." 


CYNTHIA  19 

"Oh,  and  before  long,  if  it  comes  to  that!" 
She  nodded  confidentially.  "To  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  expect  somebody  here  next  week.  A  young 
man  rolling  in  riches,  and  with  expectations  that 
— oh,  tremendous !  He  raves  about  her.  She  has 
refused  him — er — seven  times — seven  times.  He 
wanted  to  commit  suicide  after  her  last  rejection. 
But  she  respects  him  immensely.  A  noble  fel- 
low he  is — oh,  a  most  noble  fellow!  And  when 
he  asks  her  again,  I  rather  fancy  that  pity'll  make 
her  accept  him,  after  all." 

"She  must  have  felt  it  a  grave  responsibility," 
observed  the  journalist  politely,  "that  a  young 
man  said  he  wanted  to  commit  suicide  on  her 
account." 

"That's  just  it,  she  feels  it  a  terrible  responsi- 
bility. Oh,  she's  not  fond  of  him!  Sorry  for 
him,  you  understand — sorry.  And,  between  our- 
selves, I'm  sure  I  really  don't  know  what  to  think 
would  be  for  the  best — I  don't  indeed!  But  I 
wouldn't  mind  wagering  a  pair  of  gloves,  that, 
if  she  doesn't  meet  Mr.  Right  soon,  she'll  end 
by  giving  in  and  Mr.  Somebody-else  will  have 
stolen  the  prize  before  he  comes — hee,  hee,  hee!" 

Turquand  groaned  in  his  soul.  In  his  mental 
vision  his  friend  already  flopped  helplessly  in  the 
web,  and  he  derived  small  encouragement  from 


20  CYNTHIA 

the  reflection  that  she  was  mistaken  in  the 
succulence  of  her  fly. 

"You're  not  smoking,"  she  said.  "Do!  I 
don't  mind  it  a  bit." 

He  scowled  at  her  darkly,  and  was  prepared  to 
see  betrothal  in  the  eyes  of  the  absent  pair  when 
they  rejoined  them. 

As  yet,  however,  they  were  still  wedged  in  the 
crowd  around  the  tables.  On  their  right,  a  fat 
Frenchwoman  cried  "Assez!  assez!"  imploringly 
as  her  horse,  leading  by  a  foot,  threatened  at  last 
to  glide  past  the  winning-post  and  leave  victory 
in  the  rear ;  to  their  left,  an  English  girl,  evident- 
ly on  her  honeymoon,  was  making  radiant  de- 
mands on  the  bridegroom's  gold.  Kent  had  lost 
sixteen  francs,  and  Miss  Walford  had  lost  five 
before  they  perceived  that  the  others  had  retired. 

"We  had  better  go  and  look  for  them,"  she 
declared. 

The  well-bred  sea  shimmered  in  the  moon- 
light now,  and  the  terrace  was  so  thronged  that 
investigation  could  be  made  only  in  a  saunter. 

"I  wonder  where  they  have  got  to,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

Her  companion  was  too  contented  to  be 
curious. 

"We're  sure  to  come  upon  them  in  a  minute," 


CYNTHIA  %\ 

he  said.  "Do  you  abuse  Dieppe,  too,  Miss 
Walford?" 

"Not  at  all — no.    It  is  mamma  who  is  bored." 

"I  should  like  to  show  you  Arques,"  he  said. 
"I'm  sure  your  mother  would  be  interested  by 
that.  Do  you  think  we  might  drive  over  one 
afternoon?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied.    "Is  it  nice?" 

"Well,  'nice'  isn't  what  you  will  call  it  when 
you  are  there.  It's  a  ruined  castle,  you  know; 
and  you  can  almost  'hear'  the  hush  of  the  place — 
it's  so  solemn,  and  still,  and  old.  If  you're  very 
imaginative,  you  can  hear  men  clanking  about  in 
armour.  You  would  hear  the  men  in  armour, 
I  think." 

"Am  I  imaginative?"  she  smiled. 

"Aren't  you?"  he  asked. 

"Perhaps  I  am;  I  don't  know.  What  makes 
you  think  so?" 

He  was  puzzled  to  adduce  any  reason  except- 
ing that  she  was  so  pretty.  He  did  not  pursue 
the  subject. 

"There  are  several  things  worth  seeing  here," 
he  said.  "Of  course  Dieppe  'is  only  the  Casino,' 
if  one  never  goes  anywhere  else.  I  suppose  you 
haven't  even  heard  of  the  cave-dwellers?" 

"The  'cave-dwellers'?"  she  repeated. 

"Their  homes  are  the  caves  in  the  cliffs.    Have 


22  CYNTHIA 

you  never  noticed  there  are  holes?  They  are 
caves  when  you  get  inside — vast  ones — one  room 
leading  out  of  another.  The  people  are  beggars, 
very  dirty,  and  occasionally  picturesque.  They 
exist  by  what  they  can  cadge,  and,  of  course, 
they  pay  no  rent;  it's  only  when  they  come  out 
that  they  see  daylight." 

"How  horrid!"  she  shivered.  "And  you  went 
to  look  at  them?" 

"Rather!  They  are  very  pleased  to  'receive/ 
One  of  the  inhabitants  has  lived  there  for  twenty 
years.  I  don't  think  he  has  been  outside  it  for 
ten — he  sends  his  family.  Many  of  the  colony 
were  born  there.  Don't  you  think  they  were  worth 
a  visit?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said;  "one  might  be 
robbed  and  murdered  in  such  a  place." 

"Oh,  rather!"  he  agreed.  "Some  of  the  inner 
rooms  are  so  black  that  you  literally  can't  see 
your  hand  before  you.  It  would  be  a  beautiful 
place  for  a  murder!  The  next-of-kin  lures  the 
juvenile  heiress  there,  and  bribes  the  beggars  to 
make  away  with  her.     Unknown  to  him,  they 

spare  her  life  because — because Why  do 

they  spare  her  life?  But  they  keep  her  prisoner 
and  bring  her  up  as  one  of  themselves.  Twenty 
years  later I  believe  I  could  write  a  sensa- 
tional novel,  after  all!" 


CYNTHIA  23 

"What  nonsense!"  laughed  Miss  Walford 
daintily. 

"Do  you  like  that  kind  of  story?" 

"I  like  plots  about  real  life  best,"  she  said. 
"Don't  you?" 

He  found  this  an  exposition  of  the  keenest 
literary  sympathies,  and  regarded  her  adoringly. 
She  preferred  analysis  to  adventure,  and  realism 
to  romance!  What  work  he  might  accomplish 
inspired  by  the  companionship  of  such  a  girl! 

"Wherever  have  you  been,  Cynthia?  We 
thought  you  were  lost,"  he  heard  Mrs.  Walford 
say  discordantly,  and  the  next  moment  they  were 
all  together. 

"It's  where  have  you  been,  mamma,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  I  like  that !  We  didn't  stop  a  minute ; 
I  made  certain  you  saw  us  get  up.  We've  been 
hunting  for  you  everywhere.  Mr.  Turquand  and 
I  have  been  out  here  ever  so  long,  haven't  we, 
Mr.  Turquand?  Looking  at  the  moon,  too,  if 
you  want  to  know,  and — hee,  hee,  hee! — talking; 
sentiment." 

Turquand,  who  was  staring  at  Kent,  allowed 
an  eyelid  to  droop  for  an  instant  at  the  conclu- 
sion, and  the  latter  stroked  his  moustache  and 
smiled. 

"Such  a  time  we've  been  having,  all  by  our- 
selves!" she  persisted  uproariously.    "Mr.  Kent, 


U  CYNTHIA 

are  you  shocked?  Oh,  I've  shocked  Mr.  Kent! 
He'll  always  remember  it — I  can  see  it  in  his 
face." 

"I  shall  always  remember  you,  Mrs.  Walford," 
he  said,  trying  to  make  the  fatuity  sound  grace- 
ful. 

"We  were  left  by  ourselves,  and  we  had  to  get 
on  as  we  could!"  she  cried.  "Hadn't  we,  Mr. 
Turquand  ?  I  say  we  had  to  amuse  ourselves  as 
we  could.  Now  Cynthia's  glowering  at  me !  Oh 
— hee,  hee,  hee! — you  two  young  people  are  too 
respectable  for  us.  We  don't  ask  any  questions, 
but — but  I  daresay  Mr.  Turquand  and  I  aren't 
the  only  ones — hee,  hee,  hee! — who  have  been 
'looking  at  the  moon.'  " 

"Shall  we  find  chairs  again?"  said  Kent 
quickly,  noting  the  frown  that  darkened  the 
girl's  brow.  "It's  rather  an  awkwrard  spot  to 
stand  still,  isn't  it?" 

She  agreed  that  it  was,  and  a  waiter  brought 
them  ices,  and  Mrs.  Walford  wras  giddy  over  a 
liqueur.  They  remained  at  the  table  until  she 
said  that  it  was  time  to  return  to  their  hotel. 
Parting  from  them  at  its  gates,  the  two  men 
turned  away  together.  Both  felt  in  their  pockets, 
filled  their  pipes,  and,  smoking  silently,  drifted 
through  the  rugged  little  streets  to  the   cafe 


CYNTHIA  25 

where  they  had  had  their  conversation  after 
dinner. 

"  'Thank  you  for  a  very  pleasant  evening,'  " 
said  Turquand,  breaking  a  long  pause. 

It  was  the  only  criticism  that  he  permitted  him- 
self, and  Kent  did  not  care  to  inquire  if  it  was 
to  be  regarded  as  ironical. 


CHAPTER  III 

After  his  friend's  departure,  the  mother  and 
daughter  became  the  pivot  round  which  the 
author's  movements  revolved.  Primarily  his 
own  companionship  and  the  novelty  of  Dieppe 
had  been  enough;  but  now  he  found  it  dreary 
to  roam  about  the  harbour,  or  to  sit  sipping 
mazagrans,  alone.  Reviewing  the  weeks  before 
Turquand  joined  him,  he  wondered  what  he  had 
done  with  himself  in  various  hours  of  the  day. 
Solitude  hung  so  unfamiliarly  on  his  hands  that 
Miss  Walford's  society  was  indispensable. 

Soon  after  the  chocolate  and  rolls,  he  went 
with  the  ladies  to  the  Casino,  and  spent  the 
morning  beside  them  under  the  awning.  Mrs. 
Walford  did  not  bathe:  while  people  could  have 
comfortable  baths  in  the  vicinity  of  their  toilet- 
tables,  she  considered  that  recourse  to  tents  and 
the  sea  was  making  an  unnecessary  confidence — 
and  she  disliked  to  see  Cynthia  swim,  "with  a 
lot  of  Frenchmen  in  the  water."  Whether  it 
was  their  sex,  or  only  their  nationality,  that  was 
the  objection  was  not  clear.    She  usually  de- 

26 


CYNTHIA  n 

stroyed  a  copy  of  a  novel  while  Mr.  Kent  and  her 
daughter  talked.  Considering  the  speed  with 
which  she  read  it,  indeed,  it  was  constantly  as- 
tonishing to  him  that  she  could  contrive  to  do 
a  book  so  much  damage.  In  the  evening  they 
strolled  out  again,  and  but  for  the  afternoon  he 
would  have  had  small  cause  for  complaint.  Even 
this  gained  a  spice  of  excitement,  however,  from 
the  fact  that  it  was  uncertain  how  long  Miss 
Walford's  siesta  would  last,  and  there  was  al- 
ways the  chance,  as  he  lounged  about  the  hotel, 
smoking  to  support  the  tedium,  that  a  door  would 
open  and  cause  heart-leaps. 

Mrs.  Waif  ord  thought  that  the  visit  to  Arques 
would  be  "very  jelly,"  and  the  excursion  was 
made  about  a  week  later.  Kent  found  the  girl's 
concurrence  in  his  enthusiasm  as  pretty  as  he 
had  promised  himself  it  would  be,  and  when  they 
had  escaped  from  the  information  of  the  gardien 
and  wandered  where  they  chose  to  go,  the  cha- 
peron was  the  only  blot  upon  perfection. 

Perhaps  she  realised  the  influence  of  the  scene, 
though  her  choice  of  adjectives  was  not  happy — 
the  explorations  "made  her  tired"  before  long. 
Since  the  others  were  so  indefatigable,  they 
"might  explore  while  she  rested!" 

It  was,  as  Kent  had  said,  intensely  still.  The 
practical   obtruding   itself    for   a   moment,    he 


28  CYNTHIA 

thought  how  blessed  it  would  be  to  work  here, 
where  doors  could  never  slam  and  the  yells  of 
children  were  unknown.  They  mounted  a  hillock 
and  looked  across  the  endless  landscape  silently. 
In  the  dungeons  under  their  feet  lay  dead  men's 
bones,  but  such  facts  concerned  him  little  now. 
Far  away  some  cattle — or  were  they  deer? — 
browsed  sleepily  under  the  ponderous  trees.  Of 
what  consequence  if  they  were  cattle  or  deer? 
Still  further,  where  the  blue  sky  dij)ped  and  the 
woodland  rose,  a  line  of  light  glinted  like  water. 
Perhaps  it  ucas  water,  and  if  not,  what  matter? 
It  was  the  kingdom  of  imagination;  deer,  water, 
fame,  or  love — the  Earth  was  what  he  pleased! 
Among  the  crumbling  walls  the  girl's  frock  flut- 
tered charmingly;  his  eyes  left  the  landscape  and 
sought  her  face. 

"It's  divine!"  she  said. 

He  could  not  disguise  from  himself  that  life 
without  her  would  be  unendurable. 

"I  knew  you'd  like  it,"  he  said  unsteadily. 

She  regarded  the  questionable  cattle  again;  his 
tone  had  said  much  more. 

Kent  stood  beside  her  in  a  pause  in  which  he 
believed  that  he  struggled.  He  felt  that  she 
was  unattainable;  but  there  was  an  intoxication 
in  the  moment  that  he  was  not  strong  enough  to 


CYNTHIA  £9 

resist.  He  touched  her  hand,  and,  his  hear! 
pounding,  met  her  gaze  as  she  turned. 

"Cynthia I"  he  said  in  his  throat.  The  colour* 
left  her  cheeks,  and  her  head  drooped.  "Are 
you  angry  with  me?"  She  was  eminently 
graceful  in  the  attitude.  "I  love  you,"  he  said — 
"I  love  you.  What  shall  I  say  besides?  I  love 
you!" 

She  looked  slowly  up,  and  blinded  him  with  a 
smile.  Its  newness  jumped  and  quivered  through 
his  nerves. 

"Cynthia!    Can  you  care  for  me?" 

"Perhaps,"  she  whispered. 

He  was  alone  with  her  in  Elysium;  Adam  and 
Eve  were  not  more  secure  from  human  observa- 
tion when  they  kissed  under  the  apple  tree.  He 
drew  nearer  to  her — her  eyes  permitted.  In  a 
miracle  he  had  clasped  a  goddess,  and  he  would 
not  have  been  aware  of  it  if  all  the  pins  of 
Birmingham  had  been  concealed  about  her 
toilette  to  protest. 

Presently  she  said : 

"We  must  go  back  to  mamma!" 

He  had  forgotten  that  she  had  one,  and  the 
recollection  was  a  descent. 

"What  will  she  say?"  he  asked.  "I'm  not  a 
millionaire,  dearest;  I  am  afraid  she  won't  be 
pleased." 


80  CYNTHIA 

"I'll  tell  her  when  we  get  home.  Oh,  mamma 
likes  you!" 

"And  you  have  a  father?"  he  added,  feeling 
vaguely  that  the  ideal  marriage  would  be  one 
between  orphans,  whose  surviving  relatives  were 
abroad  and  afraid  of  a  voyage.  "Do  you  think 
they  will  give  you  to  me?" 

"After  I've  spoken  to  them,"  she  said  deli- 
ciously.  "Yes — oh,  they  will  be  nice,  I  am  sure, 
Mr.  Kent!  .  .  .  There,  then!  But  one  can't 
shorten  it,  and  it  sounds  a  disagreeable  sort  of 
person." 

"Not  as  you  said  it." 

"It  was  very  wrong  of  you  to  make  me  say 
it  so  soon.  Are  you  a  tyrant?  .  .  .  We  must 
really  go  back  to  mamma!" 

"Did  you  know  I  was  fond  of  you?"  asked 
Kent. 

"I— wondered." 

"Why?" 

"Why  did  I  wonder?" 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  know." 

"No;  tell  me!  Was  it  because — you  liked  me?" 

"You're  vain  enough  already." 

"Haven't  I  an  excuse  for  vanity?" 

"Am  I  an  excuse?" 

Language  failed  him. 


CYNTHIA  81 

"Tell  me  why  you  wondered,"  he  begged. 

"Because You're  wickedly  persistent!" 

"I  am  everything  that  is  awful.    Cynthia?" 

"Yes?" 

"Because  you  liked  me?" 

"Perhaps;  the  weeniest  scrap  in  the  world. 
Oh,  you  are  horrid!  What  things  you  make  me 
say!     And  we  are  only  just " 

"Engaged!  It's  a  glorious  word;  don't  be 
afraid  of  it." 

"I  shall  be  afraid  of  you  in  a  minute.  How 
do  you  think  of  your — your  proposals  in  your 
books?" 

"I've  only  written  one  book." 

"Did  you  make  it  up?  He  didn't  talk  as  you 
talk  to  me?3' 

"He  wasn't  so  madly  in  love  with  her." 

"But  he  said  the  very  sweetest  things!" 

"That's  why." 

"You  are  horrid!"  she  declared  again.  "I  don't 
know  what  you  mean  a  bit  .  .  .  Mr.  Kent " 

"Who  is  her 

"Humphrey " 

"Yes — sweetheart  ?" 

"Now  you've  put  it  out  of  my  head."  She 
laughed  softly.    "I  was  going  to  say  something." 

"Let  me  look  at  you  till  you  think  what  it 
was." 


S2  CYNTHIA 

"Perhaps  that  wouldn't  help  me." 

"Oh,  you're  an  angel!"  he  exclaimed.  "Cyn- 
thia, we  shall  always  remember  Arques?" 

She  breathed  assent.  "Was  this  Joan  of  Arc's 
Arques?" 

"No— Noah's." 

"Whose?"  she  said. 

He  was  penitent ;  he  made  haste  to  add : 

"Not  hers;  it  is  spelt  differently,  besides." 

"I  believe  you're  being  silly,"  she  said,  in  a 
puzzled  tone.  "I  don't  understand.  Oh,  we 
must  go  back  to  mamma;  she'll  think  we're 
lost!" 

Mrs.  Walford  didn't  evince  any  signs  of  per- 
turbation, however,  when  they  rejoined  her,  nor 
did  she  ask  for  particulars  of  what  they  had  seen. 
She  seemed  to  think  it  likely  that  they  might 
not  feel  talkative.  She  said  that  she  had  "en- 
joyed it  all  immensely,"  sitting  there  in  the 
shade,  and  that  the  gardien,  who  had  come  back 
to  her,  had  imparted  the  most  romantic  facts 
about  the  chateau.  Around  some  of  them  she 
was  convinced  that  Mr.  Kent  could  easily  write 
an  historical  novel,  which  she  was  sure  would  be 
deeply  interesting,  though  she  never  read  histori- 
cal novels  herself.  Had  Mr.  Kent  and  Cynthia 
any  idea  of  the  quantity  of  pippins  grown  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood  every  summer?     The 


CYNTHIA  S3 

gardien  had  told  her  that  as  well.  No;  it  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  chateau,  but  it  was 
simply  extraordinary,  and  the  bulk  of  the  fruit 
was  converted  into  cider,  and  the  peasantry 
got  it  for  nothing.  Cider  for  nothing  must  be  so 
very  nice  for  them  when  they  couldn't  afford  the 
wine,  and  she  had  no  doubt  that  it  was  much 
more  wholesome  tooy  though,  personally,  she 
had  tasted  cider  only  once,  and  then  it  had  made 
her  ill. 

They  drove  down  the  dusty  hill  listening  to 
her.  The  girl  spoke  scarcely  at  all,  and  the  onus 
of  appearing  entertained  devolved  upon  Kent. 
When  the  fiacre  deposited  them  at  the  hotel  at 
last,  he  drew  a  sigh  in  which  relief  and  appre- 
hension mingled.  Cynthia  followed  her  mother 
upstairs,  and  he  caught  a  glance  from  her,  and 
smiled  his  gratitude;  but  he  questioned  inwardly 
what  would  be  the  upshot  of  the  announcement 
that  she  was  about  to  make.  He  perceived  with 
some  amusement  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  an 
experience  of  whose  terrors  he  had  often  read. 
He  was  a  candidate  for  a  young  lady's  hand. 
Yes,  it  made  one  nervous.  He  asked  himself  for 
the  twentieth  time  in  the  past  few  days  if  he  had 
been  mistaken  in  supposing  that  Mrs.  Walford 
over-estimated  his  eligibility;  perhaps  he  was  no 
worse  off  than  she  thought?    But  even  then  he 


34i  CYNTHIA 

quaked,  for  he  had  seen  too  little  society  since  he 
was  a  boy  to  be  versed  in  such  matters,  and  he 
was  by  no  means  ready  to  make  an  affidavit  that 
she  had  encouraged  him.  What  was  "encourage- 
ment"? 

A  signal  at  the  entrance  to  the  dining-room 
was  exciting  but  obscure,  and  there  was  no  op- 
portunity for  inquiries  before  the  ladies  took 
their  seats.  He  anathematised  an  epergne  which 
to-night  seemed  more  than  usually  obstructive. 
Cynthia  was  in  white.  He  did  not  remember 
having  seen  her  in  the  gown  before,  and  the 
glimpse  of  her  queenliness  shook  him.  No  mother 
would  accord  to  him  so  peerless  a  treasure — he 
had  been  mad! 

It  was  interminable,  this  procession  of  courses, 
relieved  by  glances  at  a  profile  down  the  table. 
His  mouth  was  dry,  and  he  ordered  champagne 
to  raise  his  pluck.  It  heated  him,  without 
steadying  his  nerves.  The  room  was  like  a  Turk- 
ish bath;  yet  the  curve  of  cheek  that  he  de- 
scried was  as  pale  as  the  corsage.  How  could 
she  manage  it?  He  himself  was  bedewed  with 
perspiration. 

He  could  wait  no  longer.  He  went  on  to  the 
veranda  and  lit  a  cigar.  He  saw  Mrs.  Waif  or  d 
come  out,  and,  throwing  the  cigar  away,  rose  to 


CYNTHIA  35 

meet  her.    She  was  alone.    Where  was  Cynthia? 
Seeking  him?  or  was  her  absence  designed? 

"I  hope  our  excursion  hasn't  tired  you,  Mrs. 
Watford?" 

"Oh  dear  no!"  she  assured  him.  She  hesi- 
tated, but  her  manner  was  blithesome.  His  cour- 
age mounted.  "Shall  we  take  a  turn?"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"Mrs.  Walford,  your  daughter  has  told  you 
what  I  ...  of  our  conversation  this  afternoon, 
perhaps?  I  haven't  many  pretensions,  but  I'm 
devoted  to  her,  and  she  is  good  enough  to  care  a 
little  for  me.  Will  you  give  her  to  me  and  let  me 
spend  my  life  in  making  her  happy?" 

She  made  a  gesture  of  sudden  artlessness. 

"I  was  perfectly  astonished!"  she  exclaimed. 
"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Kent,  I  was  perfectly 
astonished  when  Cynthia  spoke  to  me.  I  hadn't 
an  idea  of  it.  I — er — I  don't  know  whether  I'm 
particularly  obtuse  in  these  affairs — hee,  hee, 
hee! — but  I  hadn't  a  suspicion!" 

"But  you  don't  refuse?"  he  begged.  "You 
don't  disapprove?" 

She  waved  her  hands  afresh,  and  went  on 
jerkily,  with  a  wide,  fixed  smile: 

"I  never  was  more  astounded  in  my  life.  Of 
course,  I — er — from  what  we've  seen  of  you  .  .  . 
most  desirable — most  desirable  in  many  ways. 


86  CYNTHIA 

At  the  same  time — er — Cynthia's  a  delicate  girl ; 
she  has  always  been  used  to  every  luxury.  So 
few  young  men  are  really  in  a  position  to  justify 
their  marrying." 

"My  position  is  this,"  he  said.  "I've  my 
profession,  and  a  little  money — not  much;  a 
thousand  pounds,  left  me  by  a  relative  last  year. 
With  a  thousand  pounds  behind  us,  I  reckon 
that  my  profession  would  certainly  enable  us 
to  live  comfortably  till  I  could  support  a  wife 
by  my  pen  alone."  Her  jaw  dropped.  He  felt 
it  before  he  turned,  and  shivered.  "I'm  afraid 
you  don't  think  it  very  excellent?"  he  mur- 
mured. 

She  was  breathing  agitatedly. 

"It  ...  I  must  say — er — I  fear  her  father 

would  never  sanction Oh  no;  I  am  sure! 

It's  out  of  the  question." 

"A  man  may  keep  a  wife  on  less  without  her 
suffering,  Mrs.  Waif ord.  My  God !  if  I  thought 
that  Cynthia  would  ever  know  privation  or  dis- 
tress, do  you  suppose  I  would " 

"A  wife!"  she  said,  "a  wife!  My  dear  Mr. 
Kent,  a  man  must  be  prepared  to  provide  for  a 
family  as  well.  Have  you — er — any  expecta- 
tions?" 

"I  expect  to  succeed,"  said  Kent;  "I've  the 
right  to  expect  it.    No  others." 


CYNTHIA  37 

"May  I  ask  how  much  your  profession  brings 
you  in?" 

"I  sold  my  novel  for  a  hundred  pounds,"  he 
answered.  "It  was  my  first,"  he  added,  as  he 
heard  her  gasp,  "it  was  my  first!  .  .  .  Mrs.  Wal- 
ford,  I  love  her!  At  least  think  it  over.  Let 
me  speak  to  her  again,  let  me  ask  her  if  she  is 
afraid.    Don't  refuse  to  consider!" 

The  pain  in  his  voice  was  not  without  an  effect 
on  her  disgust.  She* was  mercenary,  though  she 
did  not  know  it;  she  was  not  good-natured, 
though  she  had  good  impulses;  she  was  ludi- 
crously artificial.  But  she  was  a  woman,  and  he 
was  a  young  man.  She  did  not  think  of  her  own 
courtship,  for  she  had  been  sentimental  only 
when  her  parents  approved — she  hadn't  "married 
for  money,"  but  her  heart  had  been  providen- 
tially warmed  towards  the  one  young  gentleman 
of  her  acquaintance  who  was  "comfortably  off." 
She  thought,  however,  of  Cynthia,  who  had  dis- 
played considerable  feeling  in  the  bedroom  an 
hour  ago. 

"I  must  write  to  her  father,"  she  said,  in  a 
worried  voice.  "I  really  can't  promise  you  any- 
thing ;  I  am  very  vexed  at  this  sort  of  thing  going 
:  on  without  my  knowledge — very  vexed.  I  shall 
|  write  to  her  father  to-night.  I  must  ask  you 
to  consider  the  whole  matter  entirely  indefinite 


S8  CYNTHIA 

until   he   comes.      Immense   responsibility  .  .  . 
immense !    I  can't  say  any  more,  Mr.  Kent." 

She  left  him  on  the  veranda.  His  sensation 
was  that  she  had  shattered  the  world  about  him, 
and  that  a  weighty  portion  of  the  ruin  was  lying 
on  his  chest. 


CHAPTER  IV 

When  Sam  Walford  ran  over  to  Dieppe,  in 
obedience  to  his  wife's  summons,  he  said : 

"Well,  what's  this  damn  nonsense,  Louisa,  eh? 
There's  nothing  in  this,  you  know — this  won't 
do." 

"Cynthia  is  very  cut  up;  you  had  better  tell 
her  so!  I'm  sure  I  wish  we  had  waited  and  gone 
to  Brighton  instead.  ...  A  lot  of  bother!" 

"An  author,"  he  said,  with  amusement;  "what 
do  you  do  with  authors?  You  do  'find  'em/  my 
dear!" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  returned 
tartly.  "I  can't  help  a  young  man  taking  a 
fancy  to  her,  can  I?  If  you're  so  clever,  it's  a« 
pity  you  didn't  stop  here  with  her  yourself.  If' 
you  don't  think  it's  good  enough,  you  must  say 
so  and  finish  the  matter,  that's  all.  You're  her 
father!" 

"I'll  talk  to  her,"  he  declared.  "Where  is  she 
now?  Let's  go  and  see!  And  where's  Mr. — 
what  d'ye  call  him?    What's  he  like?" 

"Mr.  Kent.    He  is  a  very  nice  fellow.    If  he 

39 


40  CYNTHIA 

had  been  in  a  different  position,  it  would  have 
been  most  satisfactory.  There's  no  doubt  he's 
very  clever — highly  talented — the  newspapers 
are  most  complimentary  to  him.  And — er — of 
course  a  novelist  is  socially — er — he  has  a  cer- 
tain  " 

"Damn  it!  he  can't  keep  a  family  on  com- 
pliments, can  he?  I  suppose  he's  a  bull  of  him- 
self, eh?    Thinks  he  ought  to  be  snapped  at?" 

"Nothing  of  the  sort;  you  always  jump  to 
such  extraordinary  conclusions,"  she  said.  "He 
is  a  perfect  gentleman  and  proposed  for  her 
beautifully.  After  all,  there  aren't  many  young 
men  who've  got  so  much  as  a  thousand  pounds 
in  ready  money." 

"But  he  isn't  making  anything,  you  tell  me," 
objected  Mr.  Walford;  "they'll  eat  up  a  thou- 
sand pounds  before  they  know  where  they  are. 
.  .  .  He  wouldn't  expect  anything  with  her,  I 
suppose?" 

She  shook  her  head  violently. 

"No  earthly  occasion.    Oh  dear  no!" 

"Let  me  go  and  see  Cynthia,"  he  said  again. 
"It's  a  funny  thing  a  girl  like  that  hasn't  ever 
had  a  good  offer — upon  my  soul  it  is!" 

"You  ask  home  such  twopenny-halfpenny 
men,"  retorted  his  wife.  "She  is  in  her  room; 
I'll  let  her  know  you're  here." 


CYNTHIA  41 

Cynthia  was  "cut  up."  She  liked  Humphrey- 
Kent  very  much — and  everything  is  relative :  she 
felt  herself  to  be  a  Juliet.  She  considered  it 
very  unkind  of  mamma  to  oppose  their  mar- 
riage, and  said  as  much  to  her  father,  with  tears 
on  her  lashes  and  pathetic  little  sobs.  Sam  Wal- 
f ord  was  sorry  for  her ;  his  affection  for  his  chil- 
dren was  his  best  attribute.  He  said  "Damn 
it!"  several  times  more.  And  then  he  patted 
her  on  the  cheek,  and  told  her  not  to  cry,  and 
went  out  on  the  Plage  to  commune  with  tobacco. 

After  his  cigar,  he  sought  a  coiffeur — there 
is  a  very  excellent  one  in  Dieppe;  and  he  was 
shaved,  an  operation  that  freshened  him  ex- 
tremely; and  he  had  his  thin  hair  anointed  with 
various  liquids  of  agreeable  fragrance  and  most 
attractive  hues,  and  submitted  his  moustache  to 
the  curling-irons.  The  French  barber  will  play 
wTith  one  for  hours,  and  when  Mr.  Walford 
had  acquired  a  carnation  for  his  buttonhole,  and 
sipped  a  vermouth  over  the  pages  of  Gil  Blass 
it  was  time  to  think  of  returning  to  the  hotel. 
A  pretty  woman,  who  had  looked  so  demure  in 
approaching  that  the  impropriety  was  a  sensa- 
tion, lifted  her  eyes  to  him  and  smiled  as  she 
passed.  He  momentarily  hesitated,  but  remem- 
bered that  it  was  near  the  dinner-hour,  and  that 
he  .was  a  father  with  a  daughter's  love-affair 


42  CYNTHIA 

upon  his  hands.  But  he  re-entered  the  hotel  in 
a  good  humour. 

Cynthia  went  to  bed  radiantly  happy  that 
night,  and  kissed  a  bundle  of  lilies  that  had  cost 
fifty  francs,  for  the  Capulets  had  relented. 

The  two  men  had  had  a  long  conversation  on 
the  terrace  over  their  coffee,  and  the  senior,  who 
was  favourably  impressed,  had  ended  by  being 
jovial  and  calling  Kent  "my  boy,"  and  smacking 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

Mrs.  Walford  was  not  displeased  by  the  de- 
cision, since  it  could  never  be  said  that  she  had 
advocated  it.  "My  daughter's  fiance,  Mr.  Kent, 
the  novelist,  you  know,"  sounded  very  well,  and 
she  foresaw  herself  expatiating  on  his  impor- 
tance, and  determined  what  his  income  should  be 
in  her  confidences  to  intimate  friends.  Really, 
if  the  house  were  nice,  he  might  be  making  any- 
thing she  liked — who  could  dispute  her  asser- 
tions? 

The  Capulets  had  relented,  and  the  sun  shone 
— especially  in  Paris,  where  Kent  went  in  haste 
to  get  the  engagemerit-ring ;  the  thirsty  trees 
were  shuddering  in  the  glare,  and  the  asphalt 
steamed.  But  to  wait  had  been  impossible, 
though  the  stay  at  Dieppe  was  drawing  to  a 
close  and  they  would  all  be  back  in  London  soon. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  it  would  be  as  the  signing 


CYNTHIA  43 

of  the  agreement  when  Cynthia  put  her  ringer 
through  his  ring;  and  he  was  resolved  that  it 
should  be  a  better  one  than  any  of  those  that  her 
mother  wore  with  such  complacence.  Poor  devil 
of  an  author  though  he  was,  her  acquaintances 
shouldn't  see  that  Cynthia  was  marrying  badly 
by  the  very  emblem  of  his  devotion! 

In  the  rue  de  la  Paix  he  spent  an  hour  scruti- 
nising windows  before  he  permitted  himself  to 
enter  a  shop.  He  chose  finally  a  pearl  and  dia- 
monds— one  big  white  pearl,  and  a  diamond 
flashing  on  either  side  of  it.  It  was  in  a  pale  blue 
velvet  case,  lined  with  white  satin.  He  was  satis- 
fied with  his  purchase,  and  so  was  the  salesman. 

Cynthia's  flush  of  delight  as  he  disclosed  it 
repaid  him  superabundantly,  and  when  the  girl 
proudly  displayed  it  to  them,  he  was  gratified 
to  observe  her  parents'  surprise.  The  cries  of 
admiration  into  which  Mrs.  Walford  broke  were 
fervent,  and  instantaneously  she  decided  to  say 
that  he  was  making  three  thousand  a  year. 

His  days  were  now  delicious  to  Kent.  A  magic 
haze  enwrapped  their  stereotyped  incidents,  so 
that  the  terrace  of  the  Casino,  the  veranda  of 
the  hotel,  Nature,  and  the  polyglot  lounging 
crowd  itself,  were  all  beatified.  They  were  as 
familiar  things  viewed  in  a  charming  dream — 
"the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft,"  which  were 


44  CYNTHIA 

still  more  pleasant  as  they  appeared  to  the  sleep- 
ing soldier.  A  tenderness  overflowing  from  his 
own  emotions  was  imparted  to  the  scenes,  and  he 
found  it  almost  impossible  to  realise  sometimes 
that  the  goddess  beside  him,  who  had  been  so 
unapproachable  a  month  ago,  was  actually  to 
belong  to  him.  It  dazzled  him;  it  seemed  in- 
credible. 

He  had  once  sat  down  in  the  salon  de  lecture 
with  the  intention  of  informing  Turquand  of 
his  joy;  but  the  knowledge  that  the  news  en- 
tailed a  defence,  if  he  didn't  wish  to  write  for- 
mally, had  resulted  in  his  writing  nothing.  Deli- 
cacy demanded  that  he  should  excuse  his  ac- 
tion by  word  of  mouth  if  excuses  were  required 
at  all.  To  do  such  a  thing  in  permanent  pen- 
strokes  looked  to  him  profanation  of  an  angel 
and  an  insult  to  the  bounty  of  God. 

Mr.  Walford  was  not  able  to  remain  at  Dieppe 
till  the  day  fixed  for  the  others'  return;  nor,  he 
said  genially,  was  there  any  occasion  for  him  to 
put  himself  out  now  that  he  had  a  prospective 
son-in-law  to  take  his  place.  Humphrey  was 
well  content.  He  understood  that  the  elder  lady 
was  a  bad  sailor  and  clung  obstinately  to  the 
saloon,  and  he  anticipated  several  golden  hours 
to  which  the  paternal  presence  would  have  proved 
alloy. 


CYNTHIA  45 

He  was  not  disappointed.  Sustained  by  Heid- 
sieck  and  the  stewardess,  Mrs.  Walford  stayed 
below,  as  usual,  and  he  tasted  the  responsibility 
of  having  the  girl  in  his  charge.  He  let  the 
flavour  dissolve  on  his  palate  slowly.  It  was 
as  if  they  were  already  on  the  honeymoon,  he 
thought,  as  they  paced  the  deck  together,  or  he 
made  her  comfortable  in  a  chair  and  brought 
her  strawberries;  he  watched  her  eat  them  with 
amused  interest,  vaguely  conscious  that  he  found 
it  wonderful  to  see  her  mouth  unclose  and  a 
delicate  forefinger  and  thumb  grow  pinky. 

"You  are  sure  you  have  the  address  right?" 
she  asked.  "Humphrey,  fancy  if  you  lost  it  and 
could  never  find  us  again  after  we  said  good- 
bye to-day!    Wouldn't  it  be  awful?" 

"Awful!" 

"Such  a  thing  might  happen,"  she  declared. 
"You  try  and  try  your  hardest  to  remember 
where  we  told  you  we  lived,  but  you  can't.  It 
is  terrible!    You  go  mad " 

"Or  to  a  post-office,"  he  said. 

She  laughed  gaily. 

"How  could  you  write  to  me  when  you'd  for- 
gotten the  address  ?  You  foolish  fellow !  There, 
I  was  brighter  than  you  that  time." 

He  felt  it  would  be  prolix  to  explain  that  he 
was  thinking  of  a  directory,  and  not  of  stamps. 


46  CYNTHIA 

"Come,  after  that,  I  must  really  hear  if  you've 
learnt  your  lesson!    What  is  it?    Quick!" 

"You  live  in  a  house  called  The  Hawthorns," 
he  said — "one  of  the  houses.  You  would  have 
called  it  The  Cedars,  only  that  was  the  name  of 
the  house  next  door.  I  take  the  train  to  Streat- 
ham  Hill — I  must  be  very  particular  to  say 
'Hill,'  or  catastrophes  will  happen.     To  begin 

with,  I  shall  lose  an  hour  of  your  society " 

"And  dinner — dinner  will  certainly  be  over!" 
"Dinner  will  certainly  be  over.  When  I  come 
out,  I  turn  to  the  right,  pass  the  estate  agent's, 
take  the  first  to  the  left,  and  recollect  that  I'm 
looking  for  a  bow-window  and  a  white  balcony, 
and  a  fence  that  makes  it  impossible  to  see  them. 
Do  I  know  it?" 

"Not  'impossible.'  But — yes,  I'll  trust  you." 
He  parted  from  the  women  at  Victoria,  and, 
getting  into  a  hansom,  gave  himself  up  to  reflec- 
tion. The  rooms  that  he  shared  with  Turquand 
were  in  the  convenient,  if  unfashionable,  neigh- 
bourhood of  Soho,  and  an  all-pervading  odour 
of  jam  reminded  him  presently  that  he  was  near- 
ing  his  destination.  He  wasn't  sure  of  finding 
Turquand  in  at  this  hour.  He  opened  the  door 
with  his  latchkey,  and,  dragging  his  portman- 
teaus into  the  passage,  ran  upstairs.  The  jour- 
nalist, in  his  shirt-sleeves,  was  reading  an  eve- 


CYNTHIA  47 

ning  paper,  with  his  slippered  feet  crossed  on  the 
window-sill. 

"Hallo!"  he  said;  "you've  got  back?" 

"Yes,"  said  Humphrey.  "How  the  jam 
smells!" 

"It's  raspberry  to-day.  I've  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  raspberry's  the  most  penetrating. 
How  are  you?" 

"Dry,  and  hungry  too.  Is  there  anything  to 
drink  in  the  place?" 

"There's  a  very  fine  brand  of  water  on  the 
landing,  and  there's  the  remainder  of  a  roll, 
extra  sec,  in  the  cupboard,  I  believe;  I  finished 
the  whisky  last  night.  We  can  go  and  have  some 
dinner  at  the  Suisse.  Madame  is  desolee;  she's 
asked  after  you  most  tenderly." 

"Good  old  madame!    And  her  moustache?" 

"More  luxuriant." 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  Humphrey  con- 
sidered how  best  to  impart  his  tidings.  The 
other  shifted  his  feet,  and  contemplated  the 
smoke-dried  wall — the  only  view  attainable  from 
the  window.  Kent  stared  at  him.  It  was  dis- 
played to  him  clearly  for  the  first  time  that  his 
marriage  would  mean  severance  from  Turquand 
and  the  Restaurant  Suisse  and  all  that  had  been 
his  life  hitherto,  and  that  Turquand  might  feel 
it  more  sorely  than  he  expressed.    He  was  sorry 


48  CYNTHIA 

for  Turquand.  He  lounged  over  to  the  mantel- 
piece and  dipped  his  hand  in  the  familiar  to- 
bacco-jar, and  filled  a  pipe  before  he  spoke. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  an  elaborate  effort  to 
sound  careless,  "I  suppose  you'll  hardly  be  as- 
tonished, old  chap — I'm  engaged." 


CHAPTER  V 

Turqtjand  did  not  answer  immediately. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last;  "I'm  not  astonished. 
Nothing  could  astonish  me,  excepting  good  news. 
When  is  the  event  to  take  place?" 

"That's  not  settled.  Soon.  .  .  .  We  shall  al- 
ways be  pals,  Turk?" 

"I'll  come  and  see  you  sometimes — oh  yes. 
Father  consented?" 

"Things  are  quite  smooth  all  round." 

"H'mph!" 

He  looked  hard  at  the  wall  and  pulled  his 
beard. 

"You  said  it  would  happen,  didn't  you?  I 
didn't  see  a  glimmer  of  a  possibility  myself." 

"Love's  blind,  you  know." 

"You  said,  too,  it — er — it  wouldn't  be  alto- 
gether a  wise  step.  You'll  change  your  mind 
about  that  one  day,  Turk." 

"Hope  so,"  said  Turquand.    "Can't  to-night." 

"You  still  believe  I'm  making  a  mistake?" 

"Whr.t  need  is  there  to  discuss  it  now?" 

"Why  shouldn't  we?" 

49 


50  CYNTHIA 

"Why  should  we?  Why  argue  with  a  man 
whether  the  ice  will  bear  after  he  has  made  a  hole 
in  it?" 

"We  shan't  be  extravagant,  and  I  shall  work 
like  blazes.    I've  a  plot  simmering  already." 

"Happy  ending  this  time?" 

"I  don't  quite  see  it,  to  be  consistent — no." 

"You  must  manage  it.  They  like  happy  end- 
ings, consistent  or  not." 

"Damn  it,  I  mean  to  be  true!  I  won't  sell 
my  birthright  for  a  third  edition!  I  shall  work 
like  blazes,  and  we  shall  live  quite  quietly  some- 
where in  a  little  house " 

"That's  impossible,"  said  Turquand.  "You 
may  live  in  a  little  house,  or  you  may  live  quietly, 
but  you  can't  do  both  things  at  the  same  time." 

"In  the  suburbs — in  Streatham,  probably. 
Her  people  live  in  Streatham,  and  of  course  she 
would  like  to  be  near  them." 

"And  you  will  have  a  general  servant,  eh, 
with  large  and  fiery  hands — like  Cornelia  down- 
stairs? Only  she'll  look  worse  than  Cornelia, 
because  your  wife  will  dress  her  up  in  muslins 
and  streamers,  and  try  to  disguise  the  generality. 
If  you  work  in  the  front  of  your  pretty  little 
house,  your  nervous  system  '11  be  shattered  by 
the  shrieks  of  your  neighbours'  children  swinging 
on  the  gates — forty-pound-a-year  houses  in  the 


CYNTHIA  51 

suburbs  are  infested  with  children;  nothing 
seems  to  exterminate  them,  and  the  inevitable 
gates  groan  like  souls  in  hell — and  if  you  choose 
the  back,  you'll  be  assisted  by  the  arrival  of  the 
joint,  and  the  vegetables,  and  the  slap  of  the 
milk-cans,  and  Cornelia  the  Second's  altercations 
with  the  errand-boys.  A  general  servant  with  a 
tin  pail  alone  is  warranted  to  make  herself  heard 
for  eleven  hundred  and  sixty  yards." 

"Life  hasn't  made  an  optimist  of  you,"  ob- 
served Kent,  less  cheerfully,  "that  you  clack 
about  'happy  endings'!" 

"The  optimist  is  like  the  poet — he's  born,  he 
isn't  made.  Speaking  of  life,  I  suppose  you'll 
assure  yours  when  you  marry?" 

"Yes,"  said  Kent  meditatively;  "yes,  that's 
a  good  idea.  I  shall.  .  .  .  But  your  suggestions 
are  none  of  them  too  exhilarating,"  he  added; 
"let's  go  to  dinner!" 

The  sub-editor  put  on  his  jacket  and  sought  his 
boots. 

"I'm  ready,"  he  announced.  "By  the  way, 
I  never  thought  to  inquire:  Mrs.  Walford 
hasn't  a  large  family,  has  she?" 

"A  son  as  well,  that's  all.    Why?" 

"I  congratulate  you,"  said  Turquand;  it  was 
the  first  time  the  word  had  passed  his  lips.  "It's 
a  truism  to  sav  that  a  man  should  never  marry 


52  CYNTHIA 

anybody;  but  if  he  must  blunder  with  someone, 
let  him  choose  an  only  child!  Marrying  into 
a  large  family's  more  expensive  still.  His  wife 
has  for  ever  got  a  sister  having  a  wedding,  or  a 
christening,  or  a  birthday  and  wanting  a  present; 
or  a  brother  asking  for  a  loan,  or  dying  and 
plunging  her  into  costly  crape.  Yes,  I  con- 
gratulate you." 

Humphrey  expressed  no  thanks,  and  he  deter- 
mined to  avoid  the  subject  of  his  engagement  as 
much  as  possible  in  their  conversations  hence- 
forward. 

He  was  due  at  The  Hawthorns  the  following 
afternoon  at  five  o'clock,  and  his  impatience  to 
see  the  girl  again  was  intensified  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  was  about  to  see  her  in  her  home. 
The  day  was  tedious.  In  the  morning  it  was 
showery,  and  he  was  chagrined  to  think  that  he 
was  doomed  to  enter  the  drawing-room  in  muddy 
shoes ;  but  after  lunch  the  sky  cleared,  and  when 
he  reached  Victoria  the  pavements  were  dry.  The 
train  started  late,  and  travelled  slowly;  but  he 
heard  a  porter  bawling  "Stretta  Mill!"  on  the 
welcome  platform  at  last,  and,  making  the  sta- 
tion's acquaintance  with  affectionate  eyes,  he 
hastened  up  the  steps,  and  in  the  direction  of 
the  house. 

He  was  prepossessed  by  its  exterior,  and  his 


CYNTHIA  53 

anticipations  were  confirmed  on  entering  the 
hall. 

Mrs.  Walford  was  in  the  garden,  he  was  told, 
and  the  parlourmaid  led  him  there.  It  was  an 
extremely  charming  garden.  It  was  well  de- 
signed, and  it  had  a  cedar  and  a  tennis-court, 
which  was  pleasant  to  look  at,  though  tennis  was 
not  an  accomplishment  that  his  life  had  furnished 
opportunities  for  acquiring;  and  it  contained  a 
tea-table  under  the  cedar's  boughs,  and  Cynthia 
in  a  basket-chair  and  a  ravishing  frock. 

He  was  welcomed  with  effusion,  and  he  pre- 
sented his  chocolates.  Mr.  Walford,  already 
returned  from  town,  was  quite  parental  in  his 
greeting.  Tea  was  very  nice  and  English  in 
the  cedar's  shade  and  Cynthia's  presence.  It 
was  very  nice,  too,  to  be  made  so  much  of  in  the 
circumstances.  Really  they  were  very  delightful 
people! 

The  son  was  in  Germany,  he  learnt. 

"Or  we  could  have  given  you  a  treat,  my 
boy,  if  you  are  fond  of  music!"  exclaimed  the 
stockjobber.  "You  will  hear  a  voice  when  he 
comes  back.  That's  luck  for  a  fellow,  to  be  born 
with  an  organ  like  Csesar's!  He'll  be  making 
five  hundred  a  week  in  twelve  months.  I  tell  you 
it's  wonderful!" 

"  'Five  hundred  a  week'?"  echoed  Mrs.  Wal- 


54  CYNTHIA 

ford.  "He'll  be  making  more  than  five  hundred 
a  week,  I  hope,  before  long!  They  get  two  or 
three  hundred  a  night — not  voices  as  fine  as 
Caesar's — and  won't  go  on  the  stage  till  they  have 
had  their  money,  either.  You  talk  such  nonsense, 
Sam  .  .  .  absurd!" 

"I  said  'in  twelve  months,'  "  murmured  her 
husband  deprecatingly.  "I  said  in  'twelve 
months,'  my  dear."  He  turned  to  Kent,  and 
added  confidentially,  "There  isn't  a  bass  in  ex- 
istence to  compare  with  him.  You'll  say  so  when 
you  hear.  Ah,  let  me  introduce  you  to  another 
member  of  the  family — my  wife's  sister." 

Kent  saw  that  they  had  been  joined  by  a  spare 
little  woman  with  a  thin,  pursed  mouth  and  a 
nose  slightly  pink.  She  was  evidently  a  maiden 
lady,  and  his  hostess's  senior.  Her  tones  were 
tart,  and  when  she  said  that  she  was  pleased  to 
meet  him,  he  permitted  himself  no  illusion  that 
she  spoke  the  truth. 

Miss  Wix,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  not  particu- 
larly pleased  to  meet  anybody.  She  lived  with 
the  Walfords  because  she  had  no  means  of  her 
own  and  it  was  essential  for  her  to  live  some- 
where; but  she  accepted  her  dependence  with 
mental  indignation,  and  fate  had  soured  her. 
Under  a  chilly  demeanour  she  often  burned  se- 
cretly with  the  consciousness  that  she  was  not 


CYNTHIA  55 

wanted,  and  the  knowledge  found  expression  at 
long  intervals  in  an  emotional  outbreak,  in  which 
she  quarrelled  with  Louisa  violently,  and  pro- 
claimed an  immediate  intention  of  "taking  a 
situation."  What  kind  of  situation  she  thought 
she  was  competent  to  fill  nobody  inquired; 
neither  did  the  "threat"  ever  impose  on  anyone, 
nor  did  she  take  more  than  a  preliminary  step 
towards  fulfilling  it.  She  nursed  the  "Wanted" 
columns  of  the  Telegraph  ostentatiously  for  a 
day  or  two,  and*waited  for  the  olive-branch.  The 
household  were  aware  that  she  must  be  persuaded 
to  forgive  them,  and  she  was  duly  persuaded — 
relapsing  into  the  acidulated  person,  in  wThom 
hysteria  looked  impossible.  A  year  or  so  later 
the  outbreak  would  be  repeated,  and  she  would 
then  threaten  to  "take  a  situation"  quite  as 
vehemently  as  before. 

"Tea,  Aunt  Emily?" 

"Yes,  please,  if  it  hasn't  got  cold." 

Humphrey  took  it  to  her.  She  stirred  the  cup 
briskly,  and  eyed  him  with  critical  disfavour, 

"I've  read  your  book,  Mr.  Kent." 

"Oh,"  he  responded,  as  she  did  not  say  any 
more.    "Have  you,  Miss  Wix?" 

"Very  good,  I'm  sure,"  she  brought  out,  after 
a  further  silence.  He  would  not  have  imagined 
the  simple  words  capable  of  conveying  so  clearly 


56  CYNTHIA 

that  she  thought  it  very  small  beer  indeed,  "I 
suppose  you're  in  the  middle  of  another?" 

"No,"  he  replied,  "not  yet." 

"Really?" 

She  obviously  considered  that  he  ought  to  be. 

"You  should  call  her  'aunt,'  "  exclaimed  Sam 
Walford.  "You'll  have  to  call  her  'Aunt  Emily.' 
We  don't  go  in  for  formality,  my  boy.  Rough 
diamonds!" 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Kent  thinks  it  would  be  rather 
premature,"  suggested  Miss  Wix. 

He  talked  to  Cynthia. 

Fruit  and  fowls  might  be  admired  if  he  liked, 
and  she  and  papa  took  him  on  a  tour  of  inspec- 
tion. There  were  moments  when  he  was  alone 
with  Cynthia,  while  her  father  discovered  that 
there  weren't  any  eggs. 

"He  is  very  good-looking,"  said  Mrs.  Wal- 
ford; "don't  you  think  so?" 

"I  can't  say  he  struck  me  as  being  remarkable 
for  beauty,"  said  the  spinster. 

"I  didn't  say  he  was  'remarkable  for  beauty/ 
but  he  has — er — distinction — decided  distinction. 
I'm  surprised  you  don't  see  it.  And  he  has  very 
fine  eyes." 

"His  eyes  won't  give  'em  any  carriage-and- 
pair,"  replied  Miss  Wix.    "I  used  to  have  fine 


CYNTHIA  67 

eyes,  my  dear,  but  I've  stared  at  hard  times  so 
long."   ' 

"I  don't  know  where  the  'hard  times'  come 
in,  I'm  sure!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Walford  sharply. 
"And  he  wanted  to  give  her  a  carriage  directly 
they  marry,  but  Sam's  forbidden  it." 

The  maiden  sniffed. 

"He  is  most  modest  for  his  position!  I  tell 
you,  he  was  chased  in  Dieppe;  the  women  ran 
after  him.  A  baroness  in  the  hotel  positively 
threw  her  daughter  at  his  head.  .  .  .  He 
wouldn't  look  at  anybody  but  Cynthia.  .  .  .  The 
Baroness  was  miserable  the  day  the  engagement 
was  known." 

"Cynthia  ought  to  be  very  proud,"  returned 
her  sister  dryly. 

"Oh,  of  course  the  girl  is  making  a  wonderful 
match — no  doubt  about  it!  He  sold  his  novel 
for  an  extraordinary  sum — quite  extraordinary! 
— and  the  publishers  have  implored  him  to  let 
them  have  another  at  his  own  terms;  I  saw  the 
telegrams.  .  .  .  Astonishing  position  for  such  a 
young  man!" 

"She's  in  luck!" 

"She's  a  very  taking  girl.  Her  smile  is  so 
sweet,  and  her  teeth  are  quite  perfect." 

"She  was  in  luck  to  meet  such  a  catch — some 
people  didn't  have  the  opportunity.  ...  I  once 


58  CYNTHIA 

had  a  beautiful  set  of  teeth,"  added  Miss  Wix 
morosely;  "but  you  can't  pick  rich  husbands  off 
gooseberry-bushes." 

On  the  white  balcony,  after  dinner,  Kent 
begged  Cynthia  to  fix  the  wedding-day.  After 
she  had  named  one  in  May,  it  was  agreed  that, 
subject  to  her  parents'  approval,  they  should  be 
married  two  months  hence.  He  made  his  way 
to  the  station  about  eleven  o'clock,  with  a  flower 
in  his  coat  and  rapture  in  his  soul. 

The  first  weeks  of  the  period  were  intermina- 
ble. 

He  went  to  The  Hawthorns  daily,  and  Mrs. 
Waif ord  was  so  good  as  to  look  about  for  a  house 
for  them  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  was  in  love, 
but  not  a  fool;  he  was  determined  not  to  cripple 
himself  at  the  outset  by  a  heavy  rental.  In  con- 
ference with  the  fiancee  he  intimated  that  it 
would  be  preposterous  for  them  to  think  of  pay- 
ing a  higher  rent  than  fifty  pounds.  Cynthia 
was  a  little  disappointed,  for  mamma  had  just 
seen  a  villa  at  sixty-five  that  was  a  "picturesque 
duck."  He  strangled  an  impulse  to  say,  "We'll 
take  it,"  and  repeated  that  as  soon  as  their  cir- 
cumstances brightened  they  could  remove.  She 
did  not  argue  the  point,  though  the  vara  avis 
evidently  allured  her,  and  Kent  felt  her  acquies- 


CYNTHIA  59 

cence  to  be  very  gracious,  and  wondered  if  he 
sounded  mean. 

The  outlay  on  furniture  did  not  worry  him 
much.  As  Mrs.  Walford  pointed  out,  the  things 
would  "always  be  there"  and  "once  they  were 
bought,  they  were  bought!"  In  her  company 
they  proceeded  to  Tottenham  Court  Road  every 
morning  for  a  week,  and  this  one  sped  more 
quickly  to  him  than  any  yet.  It  was  a  foretaste 
of  life  with  Cynthia  to  choose  armchairs,  and 
etchings,  and  ornaments,  and  the  rest,  for  their 
home  together.  They  had  found  a  house  at 
fifty  pounds  per  annum;  it  was  about  ten  min- 
utes' walk  from  The  Hawthorns,  a  semi-detached 
villa  in  red  brick,  with  nice  wide  windows,  and 
electric  bells,  and  rose-trees  on  either  side  of  the 
tessellated  path.  They  wanted  to  be  able  to 
drive  up  to  it  when  they  returned  from  the  honey- 
moon and  find  it  ready  for  them.  Mrs.  Walford 
was  to  buy  the  kitchen  utensils,  and  engage  a 
servant  while  they  were  away.  All  they  had  to 
do  now  was  to  buy  the  articles  of  interest,  and 
settle  the  wall-papers,  and  have  little  interme- 
diate luncheons,  and  go  back  to  the  shop,  and 
sip  tea  while  rolls  of  carpet  were  displayed.  It 
was  great  fun. 

In  the  shops,  though,  the  things  seldom  seemed 
to  look  so  nice  as  thev  had  done  in  the  cata- 


60  CYNTHIA 

logues,  and  it  was  generally  necessary  to  pay 
more  than  had  been  foreseen.  But,  again,  "once 
they  were  bought,  they  were  bought!"  The 
thought  was  sustaining.  If  Kent  felt  blank  when 
he  contemplated  the  total  of  what  they  had  spent, 
and  remembered  that  the  kitchen  clamoured  still, 
he  reflected  that  to  kiss  Cynthia  in  such  a  jolly 
little  menage  would  certainly  be  charming,  and 
the  girl  averred  ecstatically  that  the  dessert  serv- 
ice "looked  better  than  mamma's!"  He  esti- 
mated that  they  could  live  in  comfort  on  two 
hundred  and  fifty  a  year — for  the  first  year,  at 
all  events;  and  by  then  he  would  have  finished 
a  novel,  which,  in  view  of  the  Press  notices  that 
he  had  had,  he  believed  would  bring  them  in  as 
much  as  that.  Even  if  it  did  not,  there  would 
be  a  substantial  portion  of  his  capital  remaining; 

and  with  the  third  book No,  he  had  no  cause 

for  dismay,  he  told  himself. 

They  had  decided  upon  Mentone  for  the  wed- 
ding trip — a  fortnight.  It  was  long  enough, 
and  they  both  felt  that  they  would  rather  go  to 
Mentone  for  a  fortnight  than  to  Bournemouth 
or  Ventnor  for  a  month.  It  would  amount  to 
much  the  same  thing  financially,  and  be  much 
more  pleasant. 

"The  morning  after  we  come  back,  darling," 
said  Kent,  "I  shall  go  straight  to  my  desk  after 


CYNTHIA  61 

breakfast,  and  you  know  you'll  see  scarcely  more 
of  me  till  evening  than  if  I  were  a  business  man 
and  had  to  go  to  the  City." 

"Y-e-s,"    concurred    Cynthia    meekly.      "Of 
course — I  understand." 


CHAPTER  VI 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walford's  present  was  to  be 
a  grand  piano — or  possibly  a  semi-grand,  since 
the  drawing-room  was  not  extensive — and  with 
a  son  being  educated  for  the  musical  profession, 
it  was  natural  that  they  shouldn't  select  it  till 
he  returned;  they  wished  for  the  advantage  of 
his  judgment. 

He  was  travelling.  He  was  on  the  Continent 
with  Pincocca,  the  master  under  whom  he 
studied.  On  hearing  of  his  sister's  engagement, 
he  had  at  once  despatched  affectionate  letters, 
and  now  he  was  expected  home  in  two  or  three 
days  to  make  Mr.  Kent's  acquaintance,  and  ten- 
der his  felicitations  in  person. 

The  better  Kent  learnt  to  know  the  Walfords, 
the  more  clearly  he  perceived  how  inordinately 
proud  they  were  of  their  son.  Caesar's  arrival, 
and  Caesar's  approaching  debut  were  topics  dis- 
cussed with  a  frequency  he  found  tedious.  Even 
Cynthia  was  so  much  excited  by  the  prospect  of 
reunion  that  a  tete-a-tete  with  her  lost  a  little  of 
its  fascination.     He  occasionally  feared  that  if 

62 


CYNTHIA  63 

his  prospective  brother-in-law  did  not  arrive 
without  delay,  he  would  have  been  bored  into  a 
cordial  dislike  for  him  by  the  time  they  met. 
He  foresaw  himself  telling  him  so,  at  a  distant 
date,  and  their  joking  over  the  matter  together. 
Miss  Wix  alone  appeared  untainted  by  the  pre- 
vailing enthusiasm,  and  the  first  ray  of  friendli- 
ness for  the  spinster  of  which  he  had  been  con- 
scious was  due  to  a  glance  of  comprehension  from 
her  eyes  one  afternoon  when  Cgesar  had  been  dis- 
cussed energetically  for  upwards  of  half  an  hour. 
It  struck  him  that  there  was  even  a  gleam  of 
ironical  humour  in  her  gaze. 

"Enthralling,  isn't  it?"  she  seemed  to  say. 
"What  do  you  think  of  'em?" 

He  said  to  Cynthia  later: 

"They  do  talk  about  your  brother  and  his 
voice  an  awful  lot,  dearest,  don't  they?" 

She  looked  somewhat  startled. 

"Well,  I  suppose  we  do,"  she  answered  slowly, 
"now  you  point  it  out.  But  I  didn't  know.  You 
see,  ever  since  his  voice  was  discovered,  Caesar's 
been  brought  up  for  the  profession.  When 
you've  heard  it,  you'll  understand." 

"Is  it  really  so  wonderful?"  he  asked  respect- 
fully. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  you'll  say  so.  Signor  Pincocca 
told  mamma  it  would  be  a  crime  if  she  didn't 


64  CYNTHIA 

let  him  study  seriously  for  the  career.  And 
Caesar  has  been  under  him  years  since  then. 
Pincocca  says  when  he  'comes  out'  people  '11 
rave  about  him.  If  he  had  had  just  a  'fine  voice/ 
he  would  have  gone  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  you 
know,  with  papa;  but — but  there  could  be  no 
question  about  it  with  a  gift  like  that." 

Kent  acknowledged  that  it  was  natural  they 
should  be  profoundly  interested  by  the  young 
fellow's  promise.  Privately  he  wished  that  a 
literary  man  could  also  leap  into  fame  and  for- 
tune with  his  debut. 

The  next  afternoon  when  he  reached  The 
Hawthorns  he  heard  that  Caesar  had  already 
come — indeed,  he  had  divined  as  much  by  Mrs. 
Walford's  jubilant  air.  At  the  moment  the  gen- 
tleman was  not  in  the  room ;  Cynthia  ran  to  fetch 
him.  Humphrey  awaited  his  entrance  with  con- 
siderable curiosity,  and  the  mother  kept  looking 
impatiently  towards  the  door. 

"I  don't  know  what's  keeping  him,"  she  said 
in  her  most  staccato  tones.  "Pie  went  to  fetch 
my  book.  Oh,  he'll  be  here  in  a  minute — or  shall 
we  go  and  look  for  him?  Perhaps  he's  in  the 
garden,  and  Cynthia  can't  find  him.  What  do 
you  say?" 

"Just  as  you  please,"  said  Kent. 

Eut  as  he  spoke  the  girl  returned,  to  announce 


CYNTHIA  65 

that  her  brother  was  following  her,  and  the  next 
moment  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  brillantine 
and  tuberoses,  and  Humphrey  found  his  finger- 
tips being  gently  pressed  in  a  large,  moist  palm. 

"I  am  charmed,"  said  Caesar  Walford  with  a 
lingering  smile.    "Charmed." 

Kent  saw  a  fat  young  man  of  six  or  seven  and 
twenty,  with  an  enormous  chest  development, 
and  a  waist  that  suggested  that  he  wore  stays 
and  was  already  wrestling  with  his  figure.  His 
hair,  which  had  been  grown  long,  was  arranged 
on  his  forehead  in  a  negligent  curl,  and  his  shirt- 
collar,  low  in  the  neck,  surmounted  a  flowing 
bow. 

"I'm  very  pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  the  au- 
thor with  disgust. 

"I  am  charmed!"  repeated  Caesar  tenderly. 
"It's  quite  a  delight.  And  it's  you  who  are  going 
to  take  Cynthia  away  from  us,  eh?"  He  glanced 
from  one  to  the  other,  and  shook  a  playful  fore- 
finger.   "You  bad  man!  .  .  .  O  wicked  puss!" 

Mrs.  Walford  viewed  these  ponderous  antics 
beamingly. 

"There's  grace!"  her  expression  cried. 
"There's  dramatic  gesture  for  you !" 

Again  Humphrey's  gaze  sought  the  sour  spin- 
ster's, and — yes,  her  own  was  eloquent. 

He  sipped  his  tea  abstractedly.     So  this  was 


66  CYNTHIA 

the  gifted  being  of  whom  he  had  heard  so  much 
— this  dreadful  creature  who  bulged  out  of  his 
frock  coat,  and  minced,  and  posed,  and  was 
alternately  frisky  and  pompous.  What  a  con- 
nection to  have!  Was  it  possible  that  his  voice 
was  so  magnificent  as  they  all  declared,  or  would 
that  be  a  disappointment  too?  In  any  case,  his 
self-complacence  made  a  stranger  ill. 

It  was  about  two  hours  after  dinner  that  the 
young  man  was  begged  to  oblige  the  company, 
and  Humphrey,  who  was  now  truly  eager  to  hear 
him,  feared  for  a  long  while  that  the  persuasions 
would  not  succeed,  for  the  coming  bass  objected 
in  turn  to  Wagner,  and  Verdi,  and  all  the  songs 
in  his  repertoire.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders 
pityingly  at  this  one,  had  forgotten  another,  and 
was  "not  equal"  this  evening  to  a  third.  At  last, 
however,  Cynthia  rose,  and  insisted  that  he  should 
give  them  "Infelice."    Ernani  was  "intolerable," 

but,  since  they  would  not  let  him  alone He 

crossed  languidly  to  her  side. 

A  hush  of  suspense  settled  upon  the  long 
drawing-room.  Sam  Walford  fixed  Kent  with 
a  stare,  as  if  he  meant  to  watch  the  admiration 
begin  to  bubble  in  him.  Louisa,  the  hilarious 
and  untruthful,  appeared  to  be  experiencing 
some  divine  emotion  even  before  the  first  note. 
Miss  Wix  closed  her  eyes,  with  her  mouth  to 


CYNTHIA  67 

one  side.  Then  the  young  man  languished  at 
the  gasalier,  and  roared. 

It  was  a  prodigious  roar.  No  one  could  dis- 
pute that  he  possessed  a  voice  of  phenomenal 
power,  if  it  were  once  conceded  to  be  a  voice,  in 
the  musical  sense,  at  all.  It  seemed  as  if  he  must 
burst  his  corsets,  and  shift  the  furniture — that 
the  ceiling  itself  must  split  with  the  noise  that 
he  hurled  up.  Perspiration  broke  out  on  him, 
and  rolled  down  his  face,  as  he  writhed  at  the 
gas-globes.  His  large  body  was  contorted  with 
exertion.  But  he  never  faltered.  Bellow  upon 
bellow  he  produced,  to  the  welcome  end — till 
Cynthia  struck  the  final  chord  and  he  bowed. 

"A  performance?"  asked  Walford,  swollen 
with  pride. 

Kent  said  indeed  it  was. 

The  compliments  were  effusive.  It  was  dis- 
cussed whether  he  was,  or  was  not,  "in  voice" 
to-night.  He  explained  that  to  "lose  himself" 
when  he  sang  he  needed  Pincocca  at  the  piano. 
He  sank  into  his  chair  again,  and  mopped  his 
wet  curl. 

"The  amateur  accompaniment  is  very  pain- 
ful," he  said  winningly. 

Kent  took  leave  of  the  family  earlier  than 
was  his  custom,  asserting  that  he  had  work  to 
do. 


68  CYNTHIA 

The  momentous  date  was  now  close  at  hand, 
and  Turquand,  who  had  not  refused  to  be  best 
man,  had  made  a  present  that  was  lavish,  all 
things  considered.  In  the  days  that  intervened, 
Humphrey  and  he  found  it  impracticable  to 
taboo  the  subject  of  the  wedding;  it  was  arranged 
that  on  the  eve  of  the  ceremony  they  should 
have  a  "bachelor  dinner"  by  themselves,  and  sub- 
sequently smoke  a  few  cigars  together  in  a  music- 
hall.  Neither  wanted  anybody  else,  nor,  in  point 
of  fact,  did  Humphrey  know  many  men  to  in- 
vite. For  time  to  attend  the  wedding  the  jour- 
nalist had  applied  to  his  Editor  on  the  grounds 
of  "a  bereavement,"  and  as  he  watched  Kent  col- 
lect possessions,  and  pore  over  a  Continental 
Bradshaw,  and  fondle  the  sacred  ring,  he  was 
more  than  ever  convinced  that  he  had  used  the 
right  term. 

It  was  a  wet  evening — the  eve  of  the  wedding- 
day.  A  yellow  mist  hung  over  Soho,  and  a  light 
rain  had  fallen  doggedly  since  noon,  turning  the 
grease  of  the  pavements  to  slush.  On  the  moist 
air  the  smell  of  the  jam  clung  persistently,  and 
along  the  narrow  streets  fewer  children  played 
tip-cat  than  was  usual  in  the  district. 

Kent's  impedimenta  were  packed  and  labelled, 
and  a  brown-paper  parcel  among  the  litter  con- 
tained the  best  man's  new  suit.    The  coat  would 


CYNTHIA  69 

be  creased  by  the  morrow,  and  he  knew  it ;  but  he 
ihad  a  repugnance  to  undoing  the  parcel  sooner 
I  than  was  compulsory,  and  once,  when  Kent  was 
I  not  looking,  he  had  kicked  it. 

The  two  men  put  up  their  collars,  and  made 
their  way  across  the  square. 

"Are  you  sure  we'll  go  to  the  Suisse?"  asked 
Kent.    "It  isn't  festive,  Turk." 

"Yes,  let's  go  to  the  Suisse,"  said  Turquand 
[grumpily.    "It's  close." 

Both  knew  that  its  proximity  was  not  the  rea- 
Ison  that  it  had  been  chosen,  but  the  pretence  was 
[desirable. 

"We'll  have  champagne,  of  course,"  said 
JHumphrey,  as  they  passed  in,  and  took  their 
(seats  at  their  customary  little  table,  with  its  half- 
jrard  of  crusty  bread  and  damp  napkins.  "We'll 
nave  champagne,  and — and  be  lively.  For 
.[Heaven's  sake  don't  look  as  if  you  were  at  a 
jfuneral,  Turk!  This  is  to  be  an  enjoyable  eve- 
ling.    Where's  the  wine-list?" 

"Champagne?  What  for?"  said  Turquand. 
'Auguste  will  think  you're  getting  at  him." 

Auguste  was  prevailed  upon  to  believe  that 
:he  demand  was  made  in  sober  earnest.  That 
oeing  the  case,  he  could  run  out  for  champagne 
10  less  easily  than  for  "bittare"!  Madame,  at 
he  semi-circular  counter,  waved  her  fat  hand 


70  CYNTHIA 

in  their  direction  gaily.    Monsieur  had  inherited 
a  fortune,  it  was  evident! 

"Well,"  said  Turquand,  when  the  cork  had 
popped,  "here's  luck!  Wish  you  lots  of  happi- 
ness, old  chap,  I'm  sure." 

"Same  to  you,"  murmured  Kent.  "God 
knows  I  do!  .  .  .  It's  awful  muck,  this  stuff, 
isn't  it?    What's  he  brought?" 

"It's  what  you  ordered.  Your  mouth's  out 
of  taste.    Eat  some  more  kidneys." 

Humphrey  shook  his  head. 

"I  suppose  you'll  come  here  to-morrow  eve- 
ning— the  same  as  usual,  eh?" 

"May  as  well,  I  suppose.  One's  got  to  feed 
somewhere.  You'll  be  all  rice  and  rapture  then, 
I'll  think  of  you." 

"Do!  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but — but  just 
now,  somehow,  between  ourselves But  per- 
haps I  oughtn't  to  say  that.  ...  I  say,  don't 

think  I  was  going  to — to I  wouldn't  have 

you  think  I  meant  I  wasn't  fond  of  her,  old  boy, 
for  the  world!    You  don't  think  that,  do  you?: 
She — oh,  Heaven! — she's  a  perfect  angel,  Turk!! 
.  .  .  Fill  up  your  glass,  for  goodness'  sake,  man,  | 
and  do  look  jolly!    Turk,  next  time  we  dine  to 
gether  it'll  be  at  Streatham,  and  there'll  be  ai 
little  hostess  to  make  you  welcome;  and — and 
there'll  always  be  a  bottle  of  Irish,  old  man,  and 


CYNTHIA  71 

we'll  keep  a  pipe  in  the  rack  with  the  biggest 
bowl  we  can  find,  and  call  it  yours.  By  God, 
we  will!" 

"Yes,"  said  Turquand  huskily.  .  .  .  "Going 
to  have  any  more  of  this  stew  ?" 

"I've  had  enough.    Help  yourself!" 

"No,  I'm  not  ravenous  either — smoked  too 
much,  perhaps.  I  say,  madame  doesn't  know 
yet;  better  tell  her." 

She  was  induced  to  join  them  presently,  and 
to  drink  a  glass  of  champagne,  enchanted  by  the 
invitation.  Monsieur  Kent  was  always  si  gentil. 
But  champagne!  Was  it  that  he  celebrated  al- 
ready another  romance?  Comment?  he  was 
going  to  be  married — nevare?  But  yes — to-mor- 
row? Ah,  mon  Dieu!  She  rocked  herself  to  and 
fro,  and  screamed  the  intelligence  down  the  din- 
ner-lift to  her  husband  in  the  kitchen.  Alors, 
they  must  drink  a  chartreuse  with  her — she  in- 
sisted. Yes,  and  she  would  have  one  of  mon- 
sieur Kent's  cigarettes.  To  the  health  of  the 
happy  pair! 

Outside,  the  rain  was  still  falling  as  they  left 
the  Restaurant  Suisse  and  tramped  to  a  music- 
hall.  Here  their  entrance  was  unfortunately 
timed.  Some  good  turns  appeared  earlier  in  the 
programme,  some  good  turns  figured  lower 
down;  but  during  the  half -hour  that  they  re- 


72  CYNTHIA 

mained  the  monotony  of  the  material  that  the 
average  music-hall  "comedian"  regards  as  hu- 
morous struck  Kent  more  forcibly  than  ever. 
Wives  eloped  with  the  lodgers,  or  husbands  beat 
their  wives  and  got  drunk  with  "the  boys." 
There  seemed  nothing  else — nothing  but  con- 
jugal infelicity;  it  was  rang-tang-tang  on  the 
one  vulgar,  discordant  note. 

"I've  had  enough  of  this,"  he  said;  "let's  go. 
What  time  is  it?" 

"Time  for  a  quiet  pipe  at  home,  and  then  to 
turn  in  early.    Let's  cab  it!" 

They  were  glad  to  take  off  their  wet  boots  and 
to  find  themselves  back  in  their  own  shabby 
chairs.  But  Cornelia  had  let  the  fire  out,  and 
the  dismantled  room  was  chilly.  Turquand  pro- 
duced the  whisky  and  the  glasses,  and,  blowing 
a  cloud,  they  drew  up  to  the  cold  hearth,  re- 
marking that  the  weather  had  "turned  muggy" 
and  that  a  fire  would  have  been  out  of  place  on 
such  a  night. 

"It  looks  bare  without  my  things,  doesn't  it?" 
observed  Kent.  "One  wouldn't  have  believed 
they  made  so  much  difference." 

"Yes,"  assented  Turquand. 

"You'll  have  to  get  some  books  for  that  shelf 
over  there,  you  know — it's  awful  empty." 


CYNTHIA  73 

Turquand  shivered,  and  said  that  he  should. 

"You  aren't  cold?" 

"Cold?  Not  a  bit — no.  You  were  say- 
ing ?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  wasn't  saying  anything  par- 
ticular. I'll  write  you  from  Mentone,  old  fellow 
— not  at  once,  but  you  shall  have  a  line." 

"Thanks,"  answered  Turquand;  "be  glad  to 
hear  from  you." 

"Not  that  there'll  be  anything  to  say." 

"No,  of  course  not.  Still,  you  may  just  as 
well  twaddle,  if  you  will." 

There  was  a  pause,  while  the  pair  smoked 
slowly,  each  busy  with  his  thoughts,  and  con- 
sidering if  anything  of  what  he  felt  could  be  said 
wdthout  its  sounding  sentimental.  Both  were 
remembering  that  they  would  never  be  sitting 
at  home  together  in  the  room  again,  and  though 
it  had  many  faults,  it  assumed  to  the  one  who 
was  leaving  it  a  "tender  grace"  now.  He  had 
written  his  novel  at  that  table ;  .his  first  review 
had  come  to  him  here.  Associations  crept  out 
and  trailed  across  the  floor;  he  felt  that  this 
room  must  always  contain  an  integral  portion 
of  his  life.    And  Turquand  would  miss  him. 

"Be  dull  for  you  to-morrow  evening,  rather, 
I'm  afraid,  won't  it?"  he  said  in  a  burst. 


74  CYNTHIA 

"Oh,  I  was  alone  while  you  were  at  Dieppe, 
you  know.  I  shall  jog  along  all  right.  .  .  . 
You've  bought  a  desk  for  yourself,  haven't 
you?" 

"Yes.     Swagger,  eh?" 

"You  won't  'know  where  yer  are.'  ... 
What's  that — do  you  feel  a  draught?" 

"No — I — well,  perhaps  there  is  a  draught  now 
you  mention  it.  Yes,  I  shall  work  in  style  when 
we  come  back.  Strange  feeling,  going  to  be 
married,  Turk!" 

"Is  it?"  said  Turquand.  "Haven't  had  the 
experience.  Hope  Mrs.  Kent  will  like  me — they  ! 
never  do  in  fiction.  You  .  .  .  you  might  tell  her 
I'm  not  a  bad  sort  of  a  damned  fool,  will  you? 
And — er — I  want  to  say,  don't  have  the  funks 
about  asking  me  to  your  house  once  in  a  way,  old 
chap,  when  I  shan't  be  a  nuisance ;  take  my  oath 
I'll  never  shock  your  wife,  Humphrey  .  .  .  too 
fond  of  you.  .  .  .  Be  as  careful  as — as  you  can,  I 
give  you  my  word." 

His  teeth  closed  round  his  pipe  tightly. 
Neither  man  looked  at  the  other ;  Humphrey  put 
out  his  hand  without  speaking,  and  Turquand 
gripped  it.  There  was  a  silence  again.  Both 
stared  at  the  dead  ashes.  The  clock  of  St.  Giles- 
in-the-Fields   tolled   twelve,    and   neither   com- 


CYNTHIA  75 

merited  on  it,  though  each  reflected  that  it  was 
now  the  marriage  morning. 

"Strikes  me  we  were  nearly  making  bally  asses 
of  ourselves,"  said  Turquand  at  last,  in  a  shaky 
voice.    "Finish  your  whisky,  and  let's  to  bed!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

As  the  wheels  began  to  revolve,  he  looked  at 
the  girl  with  thanksgiving.  Perhaps  the  top 
feeling  in  the  tangle  of  his  consciousness  was 
relief  that  the  worry  and  publicity  of  the  day 
were  over.  They  wTere  married.  For  good  or 
for  ill — for  always — whether  things  went  well  or 
went  badly  with  him,  she  was  his  wife  now !  He 
realised  the  fact  much  more  clearly  here  in  the 
train  than  he  had  done  at  the  altar;  indeed,  at 
the  altar  he  had  realised  little  but  the  awkward- 
ness of  his  attitude,  and  that  Cynthia  was  very 
nervous.  And  he  was  glad;  but,  knowing  that 
he  was  glad,  he  wondered  vaguely  why  he  did 
not  feel  more  exhilarated. 

They  were  alone  in  the  compartment,  and  he 
took  her  hand  and  spoke  to  her.  She  answered 
by  an  obvious  effort,  and  both  sat  gazing  from 
the  window  over  the  flying  fields.  She  thought 
of  her  home,  and  that  "everything  was  very 
strange,"  and  that  she  would  have  liked  to  cry 
"properly,"  without  having  Humphrey's  eyes 
upon  her.     Kent  wondered  whether  she  would 


CYNTHIA  77 

like  to  cry  while  he  affected  to  be  unaware  of  it 
behind  a  paper,  or  whether  she  would  imagine 
he  wanted  to  read  and  consider  him  unfeeling. 
He  thought  that  a  wedding-day  was  a  very 
exhausting  experience  for  a  girl,  and  that  her 
evident  desire  to  avoid  conversation  was  fortu- 
nate, since,  to  save  his  soul,  he  could  not  think 
of  anything  to  say  that  wasn't  stupid.  He 
thought,  also,  though  his  palate  did  not  crave 
tobacco,  .that  a  cigar  would  have  helped  him  tre- 
mendously, and  that  it  was  really  extraordinary 
to  reflect  that  he  and  "Cynthia  Walford"  were 
man  and  wife. 

Next,  he  questioned  inwardly  what  she  was 
thinking,  and  attempted,  in  a  mental  meta- 
morphosis, to  put  himself  in  her  place.  It  made 
him  feel  horribly  sorry  for  her.  He  pitied  her 
hotly,  though  he  could  not  say  so;  and  by  a 
sudden  impulse  he  squeezed  her  gloved  fingers 
again,  with  remorseful  sympathy.  At  the  mo- 
ment that  he  was  moved  to  the  demonstration, 
however,  she  was  really  wishing  that  the  dress- 
maker had  cut  the  corsage  of  her  blue  theatre 
frock  square,  instead  of  in  a  "V."  She  was  sure 
it  would  have  looked  much  better.  He  was 
agreeably  conscious  that  his  mind  had  "some- 
thing feminine  in  it"  and  congratulated  himself 
on  his  insight  into  hers.    Some  men  would  have 


78  CYNTHIA 

failed  to  comprehend !  Cynthia  was  distressfully 
conscious  that  the  tears  with  which  she  was  fight- 
ing had  made  her  nose  red,  and  she  longed  for 
an  opportunity  to  use  her  powder-puff.  The  en- 
gine screamed.  Both  spoke  perfunctorily.  The 
train  sped  on. 

As  he  sat  by  her  side  before  the  sea,  he  looked, 
not  at  the  girl  but  within  him.  He  thought  of 
the  book  that  had  formed  in  his  head,  and  per- 
haps his  paramount  feeling  was  impatience,  and 
the  desire  to  find  the  first  chapter  already  ma- 
terialising into  words.  They  were  married.  The 
unconscious  pretences  of  the  betrothal  period 
were  over  in  both.  To  him,  as  well  as  to  her, 
the  magic,  the  subtile  enchantment,  was  past. 
She  was  still  Cynthia — more  than  ever  Cynthia, 
he  understood;  but  there  had  been  a  fascination 
when  "Cynthia"  was  a  goddess  to  him,  which 
an  acquaintance  with  strings  and  buttons  had 
destroyed.  The  corylopsis  stood  in  a  squat  little 
bottle  with  a  silver  lid  among  brushes  and  hair- 
pins on  a  toilet-table,  and  his  senses  swam  no 
more  when  he  detected  its  faintness  on  her  frock. 

Companionship,  and  not  worship,  was  required 
now,  and  neither  found  the  other  quite  so  com- 
panionable as  had  been  expected.  This  the  girl 
in  her  heart  excused  less  readily  than  the  man. 


CYNTHIA  79 

Primarily,  indeed,  the  latter  refused  to  acknowl- 
edge it.  It  was  preposterous  to  suppose  that  if 
they  did  not  possess  much  in  common,  he  would 
not  have  perceived  the  disparity  during  the  en- 
gagement! Then  he  reminded  himself  that  his 
life  might  have  tendered  him  a  shade  intolerant; 
he  must  remember  that  the  subject  of  literary 
work,  all-engrossing  to  his  own  mind,  made 
|  on  hers  unaccustomed  demands.  To  try  to  phrase 
a  sensation,  the  attempt  to  seize  a  fleeting  impres- 
sion so  delicately  that  it  would  survive  the  pro- 
cess and  not  expire  on  the  pen's  point,  were  in- 
stinctive habits  with  himself;  to  her  they  ap- 
peared motiveless  and  wearisome  games. 

He  had  endeavoured,  in  the  novels  that  they 
read  together  during  the  honeymoon,  to  cultivate 
her  appreciation  of  what  was  fine;  for  she  had 
told  him  some  of  her  favourite  authors  and  he 
had  shuddered.  She  had  obtained  a  book  for 
herself  one  day,  and  offered  it  to  him.  He  had 
thanked  her,  but  said  that  he  was  sure  by  the 
title  that  he  wouldn't  care  for  it.  She  answered 
that  it  was  very  silly  and  unlit erary — she  had 
acquired  that  word — to  judge  a  book  by  what 
it  was  called.  She  was  surprised  at  him!  If  she 
had  done  such  a  thing,  he  would  have  ridiculed 
her.    And,  apart  from  that,  she  did  not  see  that 


80  CYNTHIA 

"Winsome  Winnie"  was  a  bad  title.  What  was 
the  matter  with  it? 

Kent  said  he  could  not  explain.  She  declared 
with  a  little  triumphant  laugh  that  that  just 
showed  how  wrong  he  was. 

He  made  his  endeavour  very  tenderly.  To  he 
looked  upon  as  the  schoolmaster  abroad  was  a 
constant  dread  with  him  when  he  discovered 
that,  to  effect  a  similarity  of  taste  between  them, 
either  she  must  advance,  or  he  must  regress. 
Sometimes — very  occasionally — he  handed  her  a 
passage  with  an  air  of  taking  it  for  granted  that 
the  pleasure  would  be  mutual,  but  her  assent  was 
always  so  constrained  that  he  was  forced  to  realise 
that  the  cleverness  of  expression  was  lost  upon 
her,  that  to  her  the  word-painting  had  painted 
nothing  at  all. 

He  wondered  if  his  wife's  dulness  of  vision  fair- 
ly represented  the  eyes  with  which  the  novel- 
reading  public  read,  and  if  it  was  folly  to  spend 
an  hour  revising  a  paragraph  in  which  the  major- 
ity would,  after  all,  see  no  more  artistry  than  if  it 
had  been  allowed  to  remain  as  it  was  written  first. 
He  knew  that  it  was  folly,  in  a  man  like  himself, 
with  whom  literature  was  a  profession,  and  not  a 
luxury,  though  he  was  aware  at  the  same  time 
that  he  would  never  be  able  to  help  it — that  to  the 
end  there  would  be  nights  when  he  went  up  to  bed 


CYNTHIA  81 

II  having  written  no  more  than  a  hundred  words  all 
i  day,  and  yet  went  up  with  elation,  because,  right- 
I  ly  or  wrongly,  he  felt  the  hundred  words  to  have 
been  admirably  said.    He  knew  that  there  would 
i<  be  evenings  in  the  future,  as  there  had  been  in 
i  the  past,  when,  after  reading  a  page  of  a  master's 
l  prose  with  delight,  he  would  go  and  tear  up  five 
sheets  of  his  own  manuscript  with  disgust.    And 
]  he  knew  already — though  he  shrank  from  ad- 
mitting this — that  when  it  happened  he  would 
never  be  able  to  confess  it  to  Cynthia,  as  he  had 
1  done  to  Turquand,  because  Cynthia  would  find 
it  absurd. 

The  fortnight  was  near  its  conclusion,  and  both 
looked  forward  with  eagerness  to  the  return  to 
England.  He  would  plunge  into  his  work;  she 
wrould  be  near  The  Hawthorns,  and  have  friends 
to  come  to  see  her.  Neither  of  the  pair  regretted 
the  step  that  they  had  taken;  each  loved  the 
other;  but  a  honeymoon  was  a  trying  institution, 
viewed  as  a  whole. 

Presently,  where  they  sat,  she  turned  and  put 
some  questions  to  him  about  his  projected  book. 
Her  intentions  were  praiseworthy;  she  was  a 
good  girl,  and  having  married  an  author,  she 
understood  that  it  was  incumbent  on  her  to  take 
an  interest  in  his  work,  though  she  had  fancied 
once  or  twice  that  perhaps  it  wTould  have  been 


82  CYNTHIA 

nicer  if,  like  a  stock-jobber,  he  had  preferred 
not  to  discuss  his  business  at  home.  Papa  had 
never  cared  to  do  so,  she  knew.  Discussing  an 
author's  business  was  not  so  simple  as  she  had 
assumed.  There  seemed  to  be  such  a  mass  of 
tedious  detail  that  really  didn't  matter. 

"When  do  you  think  it  will  be  finished,  Hum- 
phrey?" she  said. 

"In  nine  months,  I  hope,  if  I  stick  to  it." 

"So  long  as  nine  months?"  she  exclaimed  with 
surprise.  "Why,  I've  read — let  me  see — two, 
three  new  ones  of  Mrs.  St.  Julian's  this  year! 
Will  it  really  take  so  long  as  nine  months?" 

"Quite,  sweetheart;  perhaps  longer.  I  don't 
write  quickly,  I'm  sorry  to  say.  Still,  it  won't 
be  bad  business  if  Cousins  pay  the  two  hundred 
and  fifty  that  I  expect.  I  think  they  ought  to, 
after  the  way  the  last  has  been  received." 

"Some  people  get  much  more,  don't  they?" 

"Just  a  trifle!"  he  said.  "Yes;  but  I'm  not 
a  popular  writer,  you  see.  Wait  a  bit,  though; 
we'll  astonish  your  mother  with  our  grandeurs 
yet.  You  shall  have  a  victoria,  and  two  men  en 
the  box,  with  powdered  hair,  and  drive  out  on  a 
wet  day  and  splash  mud  at  your  enemies." 

"I  don't  think  I  have  any  enemies,"  she 
laughed. 

"You  will  have  when  you  have  the  victoria  and 


CYNTHIA  83 

pair.  Some  poor  beggar  of  an  author  who's  hop- 
ing to  get  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  for  nine 
months'  toil  will  look  at  you  from  a  bus  and  cuss 

you." 

"Suppose  you  can't  get  two  hundred  and 
fifty?"  she  inquired.    "You  can't  be  sure." 

"Oh,  well,  if  it  were  only  a  couple  of  hundred, 
we  shouldn't  have  to  go  to  the  workhouse,  you 
know.  If  it  comes  to  that,  a  hundred,  the  same 
as  I  got  for  the  other,  would  see  us  through, 
though  of  course  I  wouldn't  accept  such  a  price. 
Don't  begin  to  worry  your  little  head  about 
ways  and  means  on  your  honeymoon,  darling; 
there's  time  enough  for  arithmetic.  And  it's  go- 
ing to  be  good  work.  I've  been  practical,  too.  I 
can  end  it  happily,  and  retain  a  conscience.  It's 
almost  a  different  plot  from  what  it  was  when  I 
began  to  think,  and  it's  better.  It  ends  well,  and 
it's  better — the  thing's  a  Koh-i-noor!" 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  suggested. 

He  complied  enthusiastically.  She  was  being 
very  sympathetic,  and  he  felt  with  perfect  mo- 
mentary content  how  jolly  it  was  to  have  a 
lovely  wife  and  talk  over  these  things  with  her. 
Just  what  he  had  pictured ! 

"But  wouldn't  it  be  more  exciting  if  you 
kept  that  a  mystery  till  the  third  volume?"  she 
said,  at  the  end  of  five  minutes. 


84  CYNTHIA 

It  was  as  if  she  had  thrown  a  bucket  of  ice- 
water  on  his  animation. 

"I  don't  want  it  to  be  a  mystery,"  he  said. 
"That  isn't  the  aim  at  all.  What  I  mean  to  do 
is  to  analyse  the  woman's  sensations  when  she 
learns  it.  I  want  to  show  how  she  feels  and 
suffers ;  yes,  and  the  temptation  that  she  wrestles 
with,  and  loathes  herself  for  being  too  weak  to 
put  aside.    Don't  you  see — don't  you  see?" 

She  was  chiefly  sensible  that  his  pleasure  had 
vanished  and  that  the  note  of  interest  in  his 
voice  had  died.  She,  however,  repeated  her  sug- 
gestion; to  be  a  literary  critic,  she  must  be  pre- 
pared to  maintain  her  views! 

"I  think  all  that  would  be  much  duller  than  if 
you  had  the  surprise,"  she  declared. 

He  did  not  argue — he  did  not  attempt  to 
demonstrate  that  her  suggestion  amounted  to 
proposing  that  he  should  write  quite  another 
story  than  the  one  he  was  talking  about;  he  felt 
hopelessly  that  argument  would  be  waste  of  time. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said;  "but  one 
does  what  one  can." 

"But  you  should  say,  'What  one  trill/  dear; 
it  can  be  done  whichever  way  you  like." 

"There's  only  one  way  possible  to  me,  I  assure 
you;  for  once  'the  wrong  way'  is  the  more  diffi- 
cult.'* 


CYNTHIA  85 

"That  which  you  think  is  the  wrong  way," 
said  Cynthia,  with  gentle  firmness. 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  incredulously. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  said;  "let  me  know  some- 
thing about  my  own  business!  I  don't  want  to 
pose  on  the  strength  of  a  solitary  novel — I'm  not 
arrogant — but  let  me  know  something — at  all 
events,  more  than  you!  Heavens  above!  a  novel- 
ist devotes  his  life  to  trying  to  learn  the  technique 
of  an  art  which  it  wants  three  lifetimes  to  acquire, 
and  Mr.  Jones,  who  is  a  solicitor,  and  Mr.  Smith 
the  shoe  manufacturer,  and  little  Miss  Pink  of 
Putney,  who  don't  know  the  first  laws  of  fiction 
— who  aren't  even  aware  there  are  any  laws  to 
know — are  all  prepared  to  tell  him  how  his 
books  should  be  written." 

"I  am  not  Miss  Pink  of  Putney,"  she  said. 
"And  if  I  were,  we  all  know  whether  we  like  a 
book  or  whether  we  don't." 

"  'Like'!"  he  echoed.  "To  'like'  and  to  'criti- 
cise'     Men  are  paid  to  criticise  books  when 

they  can  do  it ;  it's  thought  to  be  worth  payment. 
Editors,  who  don't  exactly  bubble  over  with  gene- 
rosity, sign  cheques  for  reviews.  I  don't  pretend 
to  teach  Mr.  Smith  how  to  make  his  shoes;  I've 
sense  enough  to  understand  that  he  knows  the 
way  better  than  I.  Nor  do  these  people  think  that 
they  can  teach  a  painter  how  to  compose  his  pic- 


86  CYNTHIA 

tures,  or  that  they  can  give  a  musician  lessons  in 
counterpoint.  Why  on  earth  should  they  im- 
agine they're  competent  to  instruct  a  novelist? 
It  is  absurd!" 

"Your  comparisons  are  far-fetched,"  she  said. 
"A  painter  and  a  musician,  we  all  know,  have 
to  study;  they " 

"They're  entitled  to  the  consideration  due  to 
a  certain  amount  of  money  sunk — eh?  That's 
really  it.  There  are  thousands  upon  thousands 
of  families  in  the  upper  middle  classes  of  Eng- 
land to  whom  fiction  will  never  be  an  art,  because 
the  novelist  hasn't  been  to  an  academy  and  paid 
fees.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  only  in  artistic  and 
professional  circles  that  a  novelist  in  England 
is  regarded  with  any  other  feeling  than  good- 
humoured  contempt,  unless  he's  publicly  known 
to  be  making  a  large  income.  The  commercial 
majority  smile  at  him.  They've  a  shibboleth — 
I'm  sure  it's  familiar  to  you :  *  You  can't  improve 
your  mind  by  reading  novels.'  They're  per- 
suaded it's  true.  They  have  heard  it  ever  since 
they  were  children,  in  these  families  where  no 
artist,  no  professional  man  of  any  kind,  has  ever 
let  in  a  little  light.  'You  can't  improve  your 
mind  by  reading  novels'  is  one  of  the  stock 
phrases  of  middle-class  English  Philistia.  Ask 
them  if  they  improve  their  minds  by  looking  at 


CYNTHIA  87 

pictures  in  the  National  Gallery,  or  even  at  the 
Academy,  and  they  know  it  is  essential  that  they 
should  answer,  'Certainly.'  Ask  them  how  they 
do  it,  and  they  are  'done.'  Of  course,  they  don't 
really  improve  their  minds  either  way,  because, 
before  the  contemplation  of  art  in  any  form  can 
be  anything  more  than  a  vague  amusement,  a 
very  much  higher  standard  of  education  than 
they  have  reached  is  necessary;  only  they  have 
learnt  to  pretend  about  pictures.  It's  an  odd 
thing — or,  perhaps,  a  natural  one — that  an  au- 
thor of  the  sort  of  book  that  they  are  impressed 
by,  a  scientist,  a  brain-worker  of  any  description, 
literary  or  not,  talks  and  thinks  of  a  novelist 
with  respect,  while  these  people  themselves  find 
him  beneath  them." 

There  was  a  silence,  in  which  both  stared  again 
at  the  sea.  His  irritation  subsiding,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  might  have  expressed  his  opinions 
less  freely,  considering  that  Philistia  was  Ins 
wife's  birthplace.  He  was  beginning  to  excuse 
himself,  when  she  interrupted  him. 

"Don't  let  us  discuss  it  any  more,  Humphrey," 
she  said,  in  a  grieved  voice,  "please!  I  am  sorry 
I  said  so  much." 

eeI  was  wrong,"  said  Kent;  "I  have  vexed 
you." 


88  CYNTHIA 

"No;  I  am  not  vexed,"  she  replied,  in  a  tone 
that  intimated  she  was  only  hurt. 

"Cynthia,  don't  be  angry!  .  .  .  Make  it  up!" 
She  turned  instantly,  with  a  touch  of  her  hand, 
and  a  quick,  pleased  smile ;  and  he  set  himself  to 
efface  the  effect  of  his  ill-humour,  with  entirely 
successful  results.  As  they  strolled  back  to  the 
hotel  side  by  side,  he  felt  her  to  be  a  long  way 
from  him — there  was  even  a  sense  of  physical  re- 
moteness. Mentally,  she  did  not  seem  so  near  as 
in  the  days  of  their  earliest  acquaintance.  He 
caught  himself  wishing  that  he  could  debate  a  cer- 
tain point  in  construction  with  Turquand,  and 
from  that  it  was  the  merest  step  to  perceiving  that 
Mentone  would  be  jollier  if  Turquand  were  with 
him  instead.  He  was  appalled  to  think  that  such 
a  fancy  should  have  crossed  his  brain,  and  strove 
guiltily  to  believe  that  it  had  not ;  but  once  again 
he  felt  spiritless  and  blank,  and  it  was  a  labour 
to  maintain  the  necessary  disguise.  He  observed 
forlornly  that  Cynthia  always  appeared  happiest 
in  their  association  when  the  ineptitude  of  it  was 
weighing  most  heavily  upon  himself. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Mrs.  Kent  placed  few  obstacles  in  the  way  of 
her  husband's  industry,  and  installed  in  Leaming- 
ton Road,  Streatham,  he  began  his  novel,  and 
deleted,  and  destroyed,  and  rewrote,  until  at  the 
expiration  of  three  weeks  he  had  accomplished 
Chapter  I.  Primarily  he  did  not  experience  so 
many  domestic  discomforts  to  impede  him  as 
Turquand  had  predicted.  Mrs.  Walford  had 
obtained  a  very  respectable  and  nice-looking 
servant,  whose  only  drawback  was  a  father  in  a 
lunatic  asylum  and  the  frequently  expressed 
fear  that  if  she  were  given  too  much  to  do  she 
might  go  out  of  her  mind  on  the  premises.  Ann 
was  so  "superior,"  and  a  "general"  had  really 
proved  so  difficult  to  get,  that  the  thought  of  an 
hereditary  taint  had  not  been  allowed  to  dis- 
qualify her.  Cynthia  confessed  to  finding  it  a 
little  awkward  when  a  duty  was  neglected,  but 
apart  from  this  Arm  was  an  acquisition. 

The  author's  working  hours  were  supposed 
to  be  from  ten  o'clock  till  seven,  with  an  interval 
for  luncheon,  but  the  irregular  habits  of  bachelor* 

89 


90  CYNTHIA 

hood  made  it  hard  for  him  to  accustom  himself 
to  them,  and  it  was  often  agreed  that  he  should 
take  his  leisure  in  the  afternoon,  and  reseat  him- 
self at  his  desk  in  the  alluring  hours  of  lamplight, 
when  the  neighbours'  children  were  at  rest  and 
scales  ceased  from  troubling.  To  these  neigh- 
bours he  found  that  he  was  an  object  of  consider- 
able curiosity.  He  had  not  lived  in  a  suburb 
hitherto,  and  he  discovered  that  for  a  man  to 
remain  at  home  all  day  offered  much  food  for 
conjecture  there.  Subsequently,  in  some  inex- 
plicable manner,  his  vocation  was  ascertained, 
and  then,  when  Cynthia  and  he  went  out,  people 
whispered  behind  their  window-curtains  and 
stared. 

Of  his  wife's  family  he  saw  a  good  deal,  both 
at  The  Hawthorns  and  at  No.  64,  Leamington 
Road,  and  his  liking  for  his  brother-in-law  did 
not  increase.  There  was  an  air  of  condescension 
in  Mr.  Csesar  Walford's  self-sufficiency  that  he 
found  highly  exasperating.  The  bass's  debut 
had  been  fixed,  during  their  absence,  for  the 
coming  season,  and  he  repeated  the  newest 
compliments  paid  to  him  by  his  master  with  the 
languid  assurance  of  an  artist  whose  supremacy 
was  already  acknowledged  by  the  world.  The 
latest  burst  of  admiration  into  which  Pincocca 
had  been  betrayed  had  always  to  be  dragged  by 


CYNTHIA  91 

his  parents  from  reluctant  lips,  but  he  never 
forgot  any  of  it. 

Humphrey  was  sure  that  the  artist  thought 
\  even  less  of  him  than  the  neighbours  did.  Fiction 
he  rarely  read,  he  said.  He  said  it  with  an  eieva- 
I  tion  of  his  eyebrows,  as  if  novels  were  fathoms 
beneath  his  attention.  His  eyebrows  were,  in 
fact,  singularly  expressive,  and  he  could  dismiss 
an  author's  claim  to  consideration,  or  ridicule 
a  masterpiece,  without  uttering  a  word.  There 
had  been  more  truth  than  is  usual  in  such  state- 
ments when  Humphrey  said  that  he  was  not 
conceited  on  the  score  of  his  unprofitable  spurs, 
but  when  he  contemplated  the  complacent  sneer 
by  which  this  affected  young  man  pronounced 
a  novelist  of  reputation  to  be  entirely  fatuous, 
he  was  galled. 

Cynthia  had  told  her  mother  how  hard  he  was 
working,  and  once,  when  they  were  spending  an 
evening  at  The  Hawthorns  some  weeks  after 
their  return,  his  industry  was  mentioned. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  the  stock-jobber  tolerantly, 
"and  how's  the  story? — getting  along,  heh?" 

"Yes,"  said  Kent,  "I'm  plodding  on  with  it 
fairly  well,  sir." 

He  was  aware  that  his  father-in-law  did  not 
view  fiction  seriously,  either,  and  he  always  felt 


92  CYNTHIA 

a  certain  restraint  in  speaking  of  his  profession 
here. 

"And  what's  it  about?"  asked  Mrs.  Walford, 
in  the  indulgent  tone  in  which  she  might  have 
put  such  a  question  to  a  child.  "Have  you  made 
Cynthia  your  lovely  heroine,  and  are  you  flirting 
with  her  at  Dieppe  again?  I  know  what  it'll  be 
— hee,  hee,  hee!  I'm  sure  you  meant  yourself  by 
the  hero  in  your  last  book;  you  know  I  told  you 
that  long  ago!" 

He  knew  also  that  she  would  tell  him  that, 
just  as  mistakenly,  about  the  hero  of  every  book 
he  wrote. 

"N-no,"  he  said,  "I  shouldn't  quite  care  to  try 
to  make  'copy'  out  of  my  wife.  It  wouldn't  be 
easy,  and  it  wouldn't  be  congenial." 

"You  ought  to  know  her  faults  better  than  any- 
body else,  I  should  think,  by  this  time,"  said  Miss 
Wix. 

"And  her  virtues,"  said  Humphrey. 

"Oh,"  said  Miss  Wix,  with  acidulated  humour, 
"he  says  two  months  are  quite  long  enough  to 
find  out  all  Cynthia's  virtues,  Louisa!" 

"I  didn't  hear  him  say  anything  of  the  sort," 
said  Mrs.  Walford  crossly.  "Well,  what  is  it 
about?    Tell  us!" 

He  felt  awkward  and  embarrassed. 

"I  can't  explain  a  plot;  I'm  very  stupid  at 


CYNTHIA  93 

it,"  he  said.  "You  shall  have  a  copy  the  moment 
it  is  published,  mater,  and  read  the  thing." 

"I  do  wish  he'd  call  me  'mamma'!"  she  cried. 
"He  makes  me  feel  a  hundred  years  old." 

To  change  the  subject,  he  inquired  if  she  had 
read  Henry  James's  new  book. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "Oh  yes,  they  sent 
it  me  from  the  library  this  week.  It  isn't  bad; 
I  didn't  like  it  much.    Did  you  read  it,  Caesar?" 

Caesar  became  conscious  that  people  talked. 

"Read?"  he  echoed  wearily.    "Read  what?" 

"Henry  James's  last.     I  forget  what  it  was 

called Something.     I  saw  you  with  it  the 

other  day.    A  red  book." 

"I  looked  through  it.    I  had  nothing  to  do." 

"Quite  amusing?"  she  said.     "Wasn't  it?" 

"I  forget,"  he  murmured;  "I  never  do  re- 
member these  things." 

"It  took  a  clever  man  some  time  to  write," 
said  Kent;  "it  might  have  been  worth  your  at- 
tention for  a  whole  afternoon." 

Caesar  was  not  disturbed.  Neither  his  confi- 
dence nor  his  amiability  was  shaken. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  said  with  gentleness. 
"I  cant  read  these  things  any  more.  There's 
nothing  to  be  gained.  What  does  one  acquire? 
Whether  Angelina  marries  Edwin,  or  whether 
she  marries  Charles !"     He  shook  his  head 


94  CYNTHIA 

and  smiled  compassionately.  Sam  Walford 
guffawed.  "When  I  feel  that  my  mind's  been 
at  too  great  a  tension,  I  sometimes  glance  at  a 
novel;  but  I'm  afraid — I'm  really  afraid — I  can't 
concede  that  I  should  be  justified  in  giving  up  an 
afternoon  to  one." 

"Caesar  has  his  work  to  think  of,  you  know," 
put  in  Cynthia;  "he's  not  like  us  women." 

"You'll  find  it  a  tough  job  to  get  the  best  of 
Caesar  in  an  argument,"  proclaimed  Walford 
boisterously. 

"Oh,  I  don't  deny  that  I  have  read  novels  in 
my  time.  There  was  a  time  wThen  I  could  read  a 
yellow-back."  He  made  this  admission  in  the 
evident  belief  that  a  book  was  more  frivolous  in 
cardboard  covers  than  in  the  cloth  of  its  first 
edition.    "But  I  can't  do  it  to-day." 

"Well,"  cried  Mrs.  Walford,  "I  must  say  I 
agree  with  Humphrey;  I  must  say  I  think  it's 
very  clever  to  write  a  good  novel — I  do  really! 
J  couldn't  write  one;  I'm  sure  I  couldn't — I 
haven't  the  patience." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Caesar,  with  charming  con- 
fusion; "it's  Humphrey's  own  line — of  course  it 
is!  I  always  forget."  He  turned  to  Kent  de- 
precatingly:  "You  know,  I  never  associate  you 
writh  it;  it's  a  surprise  every  time  I  remember." 


CYNTHIA  95 

Kent  said  it  was  really  of  no  consequence  at 
all. 

"Well,  well,  well,"  said  Walford,  "everybody 
to  his  trade !  We  can't  all  be  born  with  a  fortune 
in  our  throats.  Wish  we  could — eh,  Humphrey, 
my  boy?  Did  you  hear  what  Lassalle  said  about 
his  voice  the  other  day?  Caesar,  just  tell  Hum- 
phrey what  Lassalle  said  about  your  voice  the 
other  day." 

"Oh,  Humphrey  doesn't  want  to  listen  to  that 
long  story,"  said  Mrs.  Walford,  "I'm  sure?" 

He  could  do  no  less,  after  this,  than  express 
curiosity. 

"Well,  then,  Cassar,  tell  us  what  it  was." 

"Do,  Csesar,"  begged  his  sister;  "I  haven't 
heard,  either." 

"A  trifle,"  he  demurred,  "not  interesting.  I 
didn't  know  I'd  mentioned  it." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Miss  Wix.  "Don't  you  remem- 
ber you  told  us  the  story  at  tea,  and  then  you 
told  it  again  to  your  father  at  dinner?  Eut  do 
tell  Cynthia  and  Humphrey!" 

"I — er — dined  with  Pincocca  last  night  at  his 
rooms,"  he  drawled.  "One  or  two  men  came  in 
afterwards.  He  introduced  me.  I  didn't  pay 
much  attention  to  the  names — you  know  what  it 
is — and  by-and-by  Pincocca  pressed  me  to  sing. 
He  said  I  was  'a  pupil,'  and  I  could  see  that  one 


96  CYNTHIA 

of  the  men  was  prepared  to  be  bored.  ...  This 
really  is  so  very  personal  that " 

"No,  no,  no!  go  on.  What  nonsense!"  said 
his  mother. 

"I  could  see  he  was  prepared  to  be  bored;  so  I 
made  up  my  mind  to — sing!  I  was  nettled — 
very  childish,  I  admit  it — but  I  was  nettled.  I 
didn't  watch  him  while  I  sang — I  couldn't.  I 
did  better  than  I  expected.    I " 

"You  forgot  everything"  cried  Sam  Walford, 
"/know!" 

"I  did,  yes.  I  didn't  think  of  Pincocca,  or  of 
him,  or  of  anybody  in  the  room.  When  I  had 
finished,  he  came  up  to  me,  and  said,  'Mr.  Wal- 
ford, I  am  green  with  jealousy.  All,  Heaven! 
if  I  could  command  such  a  career !'  The  man  was 
Lassalle." 

"Flattering  ?"  shouted  his  father  to  Kent. 
"Flattering?  'If  I  could  command  such  a  ca- 
reer!'   Eh?" 

Kent  asked  himself  speechlessly  if  this  thing 
could  be. 

"'If  I  could  command  such  a  career!'"  de- 
claimed Mi*.  Walford.  "What  do  you  think  of 
that?  He's  coming  out  in  the  spring,  you  know." 

"Yes,  so  I've  heard,"  said  Humphrey. 
"Where?" 

"That's  not  settled;  here  in  town,  I  expect,  at 


CYNTHIA  97 

Covent  Garden.  He  sang  to  the  manager  last 
week.    The  man  was — was  staggered." 

"Ha!"  said  Kent  perfunctorily. 

"There's  never  been  anything  heard  like  it.  I 
tell  you,  he'll  take  London  by  storm." 

"What  I  can't  understand,"  said  Miss  Wix, 
her  mouth  pursed  to  a  buttonhole,  "is  how  it  was 
you  didn't  know  Lassalle  directly  he  came  in.  Is 
he  the  only  musical  celebrity  you  aren't  intimate 
with?" 

Her  nephew  looked  momentarily  disconcerted. 

"One  doesn't  know  everybody,"  he  said  feebly; 
"Lassalle  happened  to  be  a  man  I  hadn't  met." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Emily?"  flared  Mrs. 
Waif  or  d.  "You  don't  imagine  that  Csssar  made 
the  story  up,  I  suppose?" 

"'Mean'?"  said  Miss  Wix  with  wonder. 
"*Make  it  up'?  Why  should  he  make  it  up? 
I  said  I  'didn't  understand/  that  is  all.  Quite  a 
simple  observation." 

She  rose,  and  seated  herself  stiffly  on  a  distant 
couch.  Mrs.  Walford  panted,  and  turned  to 
Humphrey,  who  she  was  afraid  had  overheard. 

"How  very  absurd,"  she  said  jerkily — "how 
very  absurd  of  her  to  make  such  a  remark  I  So 
liable  to  misconstruction.  By  the  way,  do  you 
see  anything  of  that  Mr.  Turkey — Turquand — \ 


98  CYNTHIA 

what  was  he  called? — now?  Has  he — er — er — ■ 
any  influence  with  the  Press?" 

"He  knows  a  good  many  people  of  a  kind. 
Why?" 

"We  shall  be  very  pleased  to  see  him,"  she 
said;  "I  liked  him  very  much.  He  might  dine 
with  us  one  night,  when  there's  nobody  particular 
here.  ...  I  was  thinking  he  might  be  useful  to 
Caesar.  The  Press  can  be  so  spiteful,  can't  it — 
so  very  spiteful?  Of  course,  Caesar  will  really  be 
independent  of  criticism,  but  still " 

"Still,  you'll  give  Turquand  a  dinner." 

"Oh,  you  satirical  villain!"  she  said  playfully. 
"Hee,  hee,  hee!  You're  all  alike,  you  writing 
men;  you'll  even  lash  your  mamma-in-law. 
Aren't  you  going  to  have  anything  to  drink? 
Sam,  Humphrey  has  nothing  to  drink.  Cynthia, 
a  glass  of  wine?" 

The  servant  had  entered  with  a  salver  and  the 
tantalus,  and  Sam  Walford  proposed  the  toast 
of  his  son's  debut.  They  prepared  to  drink  it, 
and  it  was  noticed  then  that  Miss  Wix  sat  alone 
in  her  distant  corner. 

"Emily,  aren't  you  going  to  join  us?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Emily,"  exclaimed  Wal- 
ford; "I  didn't  know  you  were  with  us,  upon 
my  word  I  didn't!" 

"  'The  poor  are  always  with  us,'  "  said  Miss 


CYNTHIA  99 

Wix,  in  a  low  and  bitter  voice.  "If  it  can  be 
spared,  a  drop  of  whisky." 

"Then,  you'll  tell  Mr.  Turquand  we  shall  be 
happy  to  see  him?"  said  Mrs.  Walford  to  Kent. 
"Don't  forget  it.  You  might  bring  him  in  with 
you  one  evening.  I  dare  say  he'll  be  very  glad 
of  the  invitation — and  he  can  hear  Caesar  sing. 
What's  your  hurry?  I  want  to  talk  to  Cynthia. 
You  aren't  going  to  write  any  more  when  you 
get  back,  I  suppose?" 

He  acknowledged  that  he  was- — that  he  had 
taken  his  wife  to  a  matinee  on  that  understanding 
— but  it  was  past  twelve  when  they  left  her 
mother's  house  and  turned  homeward  through  the 
silent  suburb.  The  railway  had  just  yielded  back 
a  few  theatre-goers,  weary  and  incongruous- 
looking.  In  the  cold  clearness  of  the  winter  night 
the  women's  long-cloaked  figures  and  flimsy 
head-gear  drooped  dejectedly,  and  the  men,  with 
their  dress-trousers  flapping  thinly  as  they 
walked,  appeared  already  oppressed  by  the 
thought  of  the  early  breakfast  to  which  they 
would  be  summoned  in  time  to  hurry  to  the  sta- 
tion again.  The  prosperous  residences  lying 
back  behind  spruce,  trim  shrubberies  and  curves 
of  carriage-drive  finished  abruptly,  and  then  be- 
gan borders  in  which  fifty  pounds  was  already  a 
distinguished  rental.     The  monotonous  rows  of 


100  CYNTHIA 

villas,  with  their  little  hackneyed  gables,  and 
their  little  hackneyed  gates,  their  painful  gran- 
diloquence of  nomenclature,  seemed  to  Kent  a 
pathetic  expression  of  lives  which  had  for  the 
most  part  reached  the  limit  of  their  potentialities 
and  were  now  passed  without  ambition  and 
without  hope.  Some  doubtless  looked  forward 
or  looked  back  from  the  red  brick  maze,  but  to 
the  majority  the  race  was  run,  and  this  was  con- 
quest. He  was  about  to  comment  on  it,  but  the 
girl  was  unusually  quiet,  and  the  remark  on  his 
lips  was  not  one  that  would  have  been  productive 
of  more  than  a  monosyllabic  assent  in  any  cir- 
cumstances. 

Their  front-garden  slept.  He  unlocked  the 
door,  and,  saying  that  she  was  very  tired,  Cynthia 
held  up  her  face  immediately  and  went  upstairs. 
After  he  had  extinguished  the  gas,  Kent  mounted 
to  the  little  room  where  he  worked,  and  lit  the 
lamp.  Beyond  the  window,  over  the  bare  trees, 
the  moon  was  shining  whitely.  He  stood  for  a 
few  moments  staring  out,  and  thinking  he  scarce- 
ly knew  of  what;  then  he  began  to  re-read  the  last 
page  of  the  manuscript  that  lay  on  the  desk. 
He  had  just  begun  to  write,  when  Cynthia  stole 
in  and  joined  him. 

"Are  you  busy?"  she  asked. 


CYNTHIA  101 

"No,  dearest,"  he  said,  surprised.  "What  is 
it?" 

She  came  forward,  and  hung  beside  him,  fin- 
gering the  pen  that  he  had  laid  down.  She  had 
put  on  her  dressing-gown,  and  her  hair  was  loose. 
She  was  very  lovely,  very  youthful  so ;  she  looked 
like  a  child  playing  at  being  a  woman.  The 
sleeves  fell  away,  giving  a  glimpse  of  the  delicate 
forearms,  and  he  thought  the  softness  of  the  neck 
she  displayed  seemed  made  for  a  parent's  kisses. 

"How  cold  it  is!"  she  murmured;  "don't  you 
feel  cold?" 

"You  shouldn't  have  come  in,"  he  said ;  "you'll 
take  a  chill.    You'd  be  better  off  in  bed,  Baby." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  want  to  stop." 

"Then,  let  me  get  you  a  rug  and  wrap  you 
up."    He  rose,  but  she  stayed  him  petulantly. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  go  away;  I  want  to  speak 
to  you.  .    .    .  Humphrey " 

"Is  anything  the  matter?" 

"I've  something  to  tell  you."  She  pricked  the 
paper  nervously  with  the  nib.  "Something  .  .  . 
can't  you  guess  what  it  is,  Humphrey  ?  Think — 
it's  about  me" 

A  tear  splashed  on  to  the  paper  between  them. 
Kent's  heart  gave  one  loud  throb  of  comprehen- 
sion and  then  yearned  over  her  with  the  truest 


102  CiNTHIA 

emotion  that  she  had  wakened  in  him  yet,  He 
caught  her  close  and  caressed  her,  while  she 
clung  to  him  sobbing  spasmodically. 

"Oh,  you  do  love  me?  You  do  love  me,  don't 
you?"  she  gasped.  "I'm  not  a  disappointment, 
ami?" 

She  slipped  on  to  the  hassock  at  his  feet,  rest- 
ing her  head  on  his  leg.  With  the  tumbled  fair- 
ness of  her  hair  across  his  trouser  as  she  crouched 
there,  she  looked  more  like  a  child  than  ever,  a 
penitent  child  begging  forgiveness  for  some  fault. 
He  swore  that  she  had  fulfilled  and  exceeded  his 
most  ardent  dreams,  that  she  was  sweeter  in  real- 
ity than  his  imagination  had  promised  him;  and 
he  pitied  her  vehemently  and  remorsefully  as  he 
spoke,  because  in  such  a  moment  she  was  an- 
swered by  a  lie.  The  lamp,  which  the  servant  had  , 
neglected,  flickered  and  expired,  and  on  a  sudden 
the  room,  and  the  two  bent  figures  before  the  desk 
were  lit  only  by  the  pallor  of  the  moon.  Cynthia 
turned,  and  looked  up  in  his  face  deprecatingly: 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry;  I  meant  to  remind  her. 
I'm  punished — I'm  left  in  the  dark  myself!" 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her.  The  fondness  that 
he  felt  for  her  normally,  intensified  by  compas- 
sion, assumed  in  this  ephemeral  circumscription 
of  idea  the  quality  of  love,  and  he  rejoiced  to 
think  that,  after  all,  he  was  deceived  and  that 


CYNTHIA  103 

their  union  was  indeed,  indeed,  the  mental  com- 
panionship to  which  he  had  looked  forward.  He 
did  not  withdraw  his  lips ;  her  mouth  lay  beneath 
them  like  a  flower;  and,  his  arms  enclosing  her, 
she  nestled  to  him  voicelessly,  pervaded  by  a  deep 
sense  of  restfulness  and  content.  In  a  transient 
ecstasy  of  illusive  union  their  spirits  met,  and 
life  seemed  to  Kent  divine. 


CHAPTER  IX 

As,  chapter  by  chapter,  the  novel  grew  under 
his  hand,  Kent  saw,  from  the  little  back-window, 
the  snow  disappear  and  the  bare  trees  grow  green, 
until  at  last  a  fire  was  no  longer  necessary  in  the 
room,  and  the  waving  fields  that  he  overlooked 
were  yellow  with  buttercups. 

He  rose  at  six  now,  and  did  about  three  hours* 
work  before  Cynthia  went  down.  Then  they 
breakfasted,  and,  with  an  effort  to  throw  some 
interest  into  her  voice,  she  would  inquire  how 
he  had  been  getting  on.  He  probably  felt  that 
he  had  not  been  "getting  on"  at  all,  and  his 
response  was  not  encouraging.  After  breakfast 
he  would  make  an  attempt  to  read  the  newspaper, 
with  his  thoughts  wandering  back  to  his  manu- 
script, and  Cynthia  would  have  an  interview 
with  Ann.  This  interview,  ostensibly  concluded 
before  he  went  back  to  his  desk,  was  generally 
reopened  as  soon  as  he  took  his  seat,  and  for 
some  unexplained  reason  the  sequel  usually 
occurred  on  the  stairs.  "Oh,  what  from  the 
grocer's,  ma'am?"     "So  and  so,  and  so  forth." 

104 


CYNTHIA  105 

"Yes,  ma'am."  "Oh,  and— Ann!"  "What  do 
you  say,  ma'am?"  More  instructions,  inter- 
rupted hy  a  prolonged  hanging  at  the  trades- 
man's door,  and  the  girl's  rush  to  open  it.  "What 
is  it,  Ann?"  "The  fishmonger,  ma'am."  "No- 
thing this  morning."  "Nothing  this  morning," 
echoed  by  Ann;  the  boy's  departing  whistle. 
"Ann!"  "Yes,  ma'am?"  "Ask  him  how  much  a 
pound  the  salmon  is  to-day."  "Hi!  how  much  a 
pound's  the  salmon?"  Meanwhile,  Kent  beat 
his  fists  on  the  desk,  and  swore.  Once  he  had 
pitched  his  pen  at  the  wall  in  a  frenzy,  and  dashed 
on  to  the  landing  to  remonstrate ;  but  he  had  felt 
such  a  brute  when  Cynthia  cried  and  declared 
that  he  had  insulted  her  before  the  servant,  and 
it  had  wasted  so  much  of  his  morning  kissing  her 
into  serenity  again,  that  he  decided  it  would 
hinder  him  less  on  the  whole  to  bear  the  nuisance 
without  complaint. 

The  ink-splashes  on  the  wall-paper  testified  to 
his  having  raged  in  private  on  more  than  the  one 
occasion,  however,  and  the  superior  Ann's  feet 
appeared  to  him  to  grow  heavier  every  week. 
The  domestic  machinery  wras  in  his  ears  from 
morning  till  nightfall — from  the  time  that  she 
began  to  bang  about  the  house  for  cleaning  pur- 
poses to  the  hour  that  he  heard  her  rattle  the  last 
of  the  dinner  things  in  the  scullery  and  go  to  bed. 


106  CYNTHIA 

It  seemed  to  him  often  that  it  could  not  take  much 
longer  to  wash  the  plates  and  dishes  of  a  Lord 
Mayor's  banquet  than  Ann  took  to  wash  those  of 
his  and  Cynthia's  simple  meals,  and  when,  like 
the  report  of  a  cannon,  the  oven-door  slammed, 
he  yearned  for  his  late  lodging  in  Soho  as  for  a 
lost  paradise. 

And  this  wasn't  all.  His  wife  was  less  com- 
panionable to  him  daily.  Fifty  times  he  had 
registered  a  mental  oath  that  he  would  abandon 
his  hope  of  cultivating  her  and  resign  himself  to 
her  remaining  what  she  was;  but  he  had  too 
much  affection  for  her  to  succeed  in  doing  it  yet, 
and  with  every  fresh  endeavour  and  failure  that 
he  made  his  dissatisfaction  was  intensified.  He 
burned  to  talk  about  his  work,  about  other  men's 
work,  to  speak  of  his  ambitions,  to  laugh  with 
someone  over  a  witty  article;  instead,  their  con- 
versation was  of  Caesar,  whose  debut  had  been 
postponed  till  the  autumn;  of  the  engagement 
of  Dolly  Brown,  whom  he  did  not  know,  to  young 
Styles,  of  Norwood,  whom  he  had  not  met;  of 
the  laundress,  who  had  formerly  charged  four- 
pence  for  a  blouse,  and  who  now  asked  fivepence. 
When  he  pretended  to  be  entertained,  she  spoke 
of  such  things  with  animation.  When  he  dropped 
the  mask,  her  manner  was  as  dull  as  her  topics, 
for  she  was  as  sensitive  as  she  was  uninteresting. 


CYNTHIA  107 

Her  wistful  question,  whether  she  had  proved  a 
disappointment,  recurred  to  him  frequently,  and 
to  avoid  wounding  her  he  affected  good  spirits 
more  often  than  he  yawned.  But  the  strain  was 
awful;  and  when  he  escaped  from  it  at  last  and 
sank  into  a  chair  alone,  it  was  with  the  sense  of 
exhaustion  that  one  feels  after  having  been  sad- 
dled for  an  afternoon  with  a  too  talkative  child. 
The  oases  in  his  desert  were  Turquand's  visits; 
but  Turquand  never  came  without  a  definite  in- 
vitation. Streatham  was  a  long  distance  from 
Soho,  and  there  was  always  the  risk  of  finding 
that  they  had  gone  to  the  Walfords'.  Besides, 
it  was  necessary  to  book  to  Streatham  Hill,  from 
the  West  End,  and  the  service  was  appalling, 
with  the  delays  at  the  stations  and  the  stoppages 
between  them,  especially  on  the  return  journey, 
when  the  train  staggered  to  a  standstill  at  almost 
every  hundred  yards. 

One  evening  when  he  dined  with  them,  Hum- 
phrey gave  him  some  sheets  of  his  manuscript  to 
read.  He  did  not  expect  eulogies  from  Tur- 
quand, but  he  would  rather  have  had  to  listen  to 
intelligent  disapproval  than  refrain  from  dis- 
cussing the  book  any  longer,  and  when  the  other 
praised  the  work  he  was  delighted. 

"You  really  think  it  good?"  he  asked.  "Better 
than  the  last?     You  don't  think  they'll  say  I 


108  CYNTHIA 

haven't  fulfilled  its  promise?  Honest  Injun, 
you  know?" 

"Seems  very  strong,"  said  Turquand,  sucking 
his  pipe.  "No,  I  don't  think  you  need  tremble, 
if  these  pages  aren't  the  top  strawberries.  Rather 
Meredithian,  that  line  about  her  eyes  in  the  pause, 
isn't  it?  You  remember  the  one  I  mean,  of 
course?" 

Kent  laughed  gaily. 

"It  came  like  that,"  he  said.  "Fact!  Does  it 
look  like  a  deliberate  imitation?  Would  you 
alter  it?  Oh,  I  say,  talking  of  lines,  I'm  ill  with 
envy.  'Occasionally  a  girl,  kissed  from  behind 
as  she  stretched  to  reach  a  honeysuckle,  rent  with 
a  scream  the  sickly-coloured,  airless  evening.' 
The  'sickly-coloured,  airless  evening.'  Isn't  it 
great?  What  do  you  think  of  that  for  atmos- 
phere? And  he's  got  it  with  the  two  adjectives. 
But  the  'honeysuckle' — the  'honeysuckle'  with 
that  'sickly-coloured,  airless' — you  can  smell  it!" 

"Whose?" 

"Moore's.  I  opened  the  book  the  other  day, 
and  it  was  the  first  thing  I  saw.  I  had  been  ham- 
mering at  a  lane  and  summer  evening  paragraph 
myself,  and  when  I  read  that,  I  knew  there  wasn't 
an  impression  in  all  my  two  hundred  words." 

"You  shouldn't  let  him  read,  Mrs.  Kent,  while 


CYNTHIA  109 

he  has  work  on  the  stocks,"  said  the  journalist. 
"I  know  this  phase  in  him  of  old." 

"Yes,  and  you  used  to  be  very  rude,"  put  in 
Kent  perfunctorily.  "My  wife  isn't!  I  can  be 
depressed  now  without  being  abused." 

Cynthia  laughed.  She  was  very  pretty  where 
she  lay  back  in  the  rocker  by  the  window.  Her 
face  was  a  trifle  drawn  now,  but  she  looked  girlish 
and  graceful  still.  She  looked  a  wife  of  whom 
any  man  might  be  proud. 

"You  didn't  mention  it,"  she  said;  "I  didn't 
know.  But  I  don't  see  anything  wonderful 
in  what  you  quoted,  I  must  say!  Do  you,  Mr. 
Turquand?  I'm  sure  'sickly-coloured,  airless, 
doesn't  mean  anything  at  all." 

"It  means  a  good  deal  to  me/'  said  Kent. 
"I'd  give  a  fiver  to  have  found  that  line." 

"Cousins  wouldn't  give  you  any  more  for  your 
book  if  you  had,"  said  Turquand.  "Put  money 
in  thy  purse !    I  suppose  you'll  stick  to  Cousins?" 

"Why  not?  Life's  too  short  to  find  a  publisher 
who'll  pay  you  what  you  think  you're  worth ;  and 
Cousins  are  affable.  Affability  covers  a  multi- 
tude of  sins,  and  there's  a  lot  of  compensation  in 
a  compliment.  Cousins  senior  told  me  I  had  a 
'great  gift.'  " 

"Perhaps  he  was  referring  to  his  hundred 
pounds." 


110  CYNTHIA 

"He  was  referring  to  my  talent,  though  I  says 
it  as  shouldn't.     That  was  your  turn,  Cynthia!" 

"Yes,"  said  Turquand;  "a  wife's  very  valuable 
at  those  moments,  isn't  she,  Mrs.  Kent?" 

"How  do  you  mean?"  said  Cynthia,  who  found 
the  conversational  pace  inconveniently  rapid. 

"I  shall  send  it  to  Cousins,"  went  on  Hum- 
phrey hastily;  "and  I  want  two  hundred  and 
fifty  this  time." 

"They  won't  give  it  you." 

"Why  not?" 

"Partly  because  you'll  accept  less.  And  you 
haven't  gone  into  a  second  edition,  remember." 

"Look  at  the  reviews!" 

"Cousins's  will  look  at  the  sale.  The  thing 
will  have  to  be  precious  good  for  you  to  get  as 
much  as  that!" 

"It  will  be  precious  good,"  said  Kent  seriously. 
"I'm  doing  all  I  know!  You  shall  wade  right 
through  it  when  it's  finished,  if  you  will,  and  tell 
me  your  honest  opinion.  I  won't  say  it's  going 
to  'live'  or  any  rot  like  that;  but  it's  the  best 
work  it  is  in  me  to  do,  and  it  will  be  an  advance 
on  the  other,  that  I'll  swear." 

"Mrs.  St.  Julian's  last  goes  into  a  fourth  edi- 
tion next  week,"  observed  Turquand  grimly,  "if 
that's  any  encouragement  to  you." 


CYNTHIA  111 

"Good  Lord,"  said  Kent,  "it  only  came  out  in 
January!    Is  that  a  fact?" 

"One  of  'Life's  Little  Ironies'!  Hers  is  the 
kind  of  stuff  to  sell,  my  boy !  The  largest  public 
don't  want  nature  and  style;  they  want  an  im- 
probable story  and  virtue  rewarded.  The  poor 
'companion'  rambles  in  the  moonlight  and  a  be- 
coming dress,  and  has  love  passages  in  the 
grounds  at  midnight — which  wouldn't  be  respect- 
able, only  she's  so  innocent.  The  heiress  sighs 
for  a  title  and  an  establishment  in  Park  Lane; 
and  the  poor  'companion'  says,  'Give  me  a 
cottage,  with  the  man  I  love,'  making  eyes  at 
the  biggest  catch  in  the  room,  no  doubt,  though 
the  writer  doesn't  tell  you  that — and  hooks  him. 
Blessed  is  the  'companion'  whose  situation  is  in  a 
story  by  Mrs.  St.  Julian,  for  she  shall  be  called 
the  wife  of  the  lord.  Sonny,  the  first  mission  of 
a  novel  is  to  be  a  pecuniary  success — you  are  an 
ass!    Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Kent." 

"You  may  give  him  all  the  good  advice  you 
can.  I've  said  before  that  I  like  Mrs.  St.  Julian's 
stories,  but  Humphrey  has  made  up  his  mind  not 
to.  That's  firmness,  I  suppose,  as  he  is  a  man!" 
She  laughed. 

"Turk  didn't  imply  that  he  liked  them  either. 
Isn't  it  painful,  though,  to  think  of  the  follow- 


112  CYNTHIA 

ing  a  woman  like  that  can  command?  What  a 
world  to  write  for — it  breaks  one's  heart!" 

"It's  an  over-rated  place,''  said  Turquand; 
"it's  a  fat-headed,  misguided,  beast  of  a  world!" 

"It  isn't  the  world,"  said  Cynthia  brightly; 
"it's  the  people  in  it!" 

A  ghastly  silence  followed  her  comment,  a 
pause  in  which  the  journalist  stared  at  the  stove 
ornament,  affecting  not  to  have  heard  her,  and 
Kent  felt  the  sickness  of  death  in  his  soul.  Shame 
that  his  wife  should  say  such  a  stupid  thing  in 
Turquand's  presence  paralysed  his  tongue;  and 
Turquand,  pitying  his  embarrassment,  turned 
to  the  girl  with  an  inquiry  about  her  relatives. 
Humphrey  had  taken  him  to  The  Hawthorns, 
as  requested,  and  Turquand,  with  characteristic 
perversity,  had  professed  to  discover  a  congenial 
spirit  in  Miss  Wix.  It  was  about  Miss  Wix  that 
he  asked  now. 

Cynthia  laughed  again. 

"Yes,  your  favourite  is  quite  well,"  she  an- 
swered— "as  cheerful  as  ever." 

"Fate  hasn't  been  kind  to  Miss  Wix,"  said 
Turquand;  "she's  been  chastened  and  chidden 
too  much.    In  other  circumstances " 

"Skittles!"  said  Humphrey. 

"In  other  circumstances,  she  might  have  been 
sweeter,  and  less  amusing.     Personally,   I  am 


CYNTHIA  113 

grateful  that  there  were  not  other  circumstances. 
I  like  Miss  Wix  as  she  is ;  she  refreshes  me." 

"I  wish  she  had  that  effect  on  me"  said  Kent, 
as  the  guest  rose  to  go  and  he  reflected  gloomily 
that  he  would  hear  nothing  refreshing  until  the 
next  time  they  met.  He  begged  him  to  remain 
a  little  longer.  And,  when  Turquand  withstood 
his  persuasions,  he  insisted  on  accompanying 
him  to  the  station,  and  parted  from  him  on  the 
platform  with  almost  sentimental  regret. 

Only  his  interest  in  his  book  sustained  him. 
He  was  deep  enough  in  it  for  it  to  have  a  fascina- 
tion for  him  now,  and,  though  there  were  still 
days  when  he  did  not  produce  more  than  a  single 
page,  there  were  others  on  which  composition 
was  spontaneous  and  delightful,  and  happy 
sentences  seemed  to  fall  off  his  pen  of  their  own 
accord.  He  wrote  under  difficulties  when  the 
summer  came,  for  Cynthia  required  more  and 
more  attention;  but  while  he  often  devoted  a 
whole  morning  or  afternoon  to  her,  he  made  up 
for  it  by  working  on  the  novel  half  the  night. 
More  than  once  he  worked  on  it  all  night,  and 
after  a  bath  and  a  shave  he  joined  her  at  break- 
fast on  very  good  terms  with  himself.  To  sup- 
port the  sprightliness,  however,  he  needed  to 
breakfast  with  someone  to  whom  he  could  report 
his  progress,  and  cry,  "I've  come  to  such  a  point," 


114  CYNTHIA 

or,  "That  difficulty  that  we  foresaw,  you  know, 
is  overcome — a  grand  idea!"  His  exhilaration 
speedily  evaporated  at  breakfast,  and,  if  he 
returned  to  his  room  an  hour  later,  he  did  so 
feeling  far  less  fresh  than  when  he  had  left  it. 

Yes,  Cynthia  demanded  many  attentions 
through  the  summer  months;  she  was  petulant, 
capricious,  and  dissolved  into  tears  at  the  smallest 
provocation.  There  was  much  for  Kent  to  con- 
sider besides  the  novel.  Also  there  were  anticipa- 
tions in  which  they  momentarily  united  and  he 
felt  her  to  be  as  close  to  him  as  she  was  dear. 
But  these  moments  could  not  make  a  life;  and 
despite  the  fact  that  the  time  when  they  expected 
their  baby  to  be  born  was  rapidly  approaching, 
he  was  living  more  and  more  within  himself. 
Cynthia  had  no  complaint  to  make  against  him; 
if  marriage  was  not  altogether  the  elysium  that 
she  had  imagined  it  would  prove,  she  did  not 
hold  that  to  be  Humphrey's  fault.  She  found 
him,  if  eccentric,  tender  and  considerate.  But 
he  was  bored  and  weary.  His  feeling  for  her 
was  the  affection  of  a  man  for  a  child,  tinged  more 
or  less  consciously  by  compassion,  since  he  knew 
that  she  would  sob  her  heart  out  if  she  suspected 
how  tedious  she  appeared  to  him.  Though  she 
would  have  been  a  happier  woman  with  a  differ- 
ent man,  the  cost  of  the  mistake  that  they  had 


CYNTHIA  115 

made  was  far  more  heavy  to  him  than  to  her.  He 
(realised  what  a  mistake  it  had  been,  while  she 
was  ignorant  of  it.  And  of  this,  at  least,  he  was 
glad. 


CHAPTER  X 

She  was  very  ill  after  her  confinement,  and 
for  several  weeks  it  was  doubtful  if  she  would  re- 
cover. The  boy  throve,  but  the  mother  seemed  to 
be  sinking.  The  local  doctor  came  three  times  a 
day,  and  a  physician  was  called  in,  and  then 
other  consultations  were  held  between  the  physi- 
cian and  a  specialist,  and  it  appeared  to  Kent 
that  he  was  never  remembered  by  Mrs.  Walford, 
or  the  nurse,  during  this  period,  excepting  when 
he  was  required  to  write  a  cheque.  "You  shall 
see  her  for  a  moment  by-and-by,"  one  or  the 
other  of  them  would  say;  "she  is  to  be  kept 
very  quiet  this  afternoon.  Yes,  yes,  now  you're 
not  to  worry;  go  and  work,  and  you  shall  be  sent 
for  later  on !"  Then  he  would  wander  round  the 
neglected  little  sitting-room,  and  note  drearily, 
and  without  its  striking  him  that  he  might  at- 
tend to  them,  that  the  ferns  in  the  dusty  majolica 
pots  were  dying  for  want  of  water — or  he  would 
sit  down  and  write,  by  a  dogged  effort,  at  the 
rate  of  a  word  a  minute,  asking  himself  anxious- 
ly what  sum  it  was  safe  to  expect  from  Messrs. 

116 


CYNTHIA  117 

Cousins.  His  banking  account  was  diminishing 
rapidly  under  the  demands  made  upon  it  now, 
and  he  found  it  almost  as  hard  to  write  a  chapter 
of  a  novel  as  if  he  had  never  attempted  to  do  such 
a  thing  before.  He  returned  thanks  to  Heaven 
that  he  was  not  a  journalist,  to  whom  the  neces- 
sity for  covering  a  certain  number  of  pages  by 
a  stated  hour  daily  v/as  unavoidable;  but  he 
wished  himself  a  mechanic  or  a  petty  tradesman, 
whose  vocations,  he  presumed,  were  independent 
of  their  moods. 

It  was  not  till  the  crisis  was  past  and  Cynthia 
was  downstairs  again,  in  a  wrapper  on  the  sofa, 
that  he  began  to  feel  that  he  was  within  measur- 
able distance  of  the  conclusion.  The  nine  months 
that  he  had  allotted  to  the  task  had  long  gone  by, 
but  that  it  would  have  taken  him  a  year  did  not 
trouble  him,  for  he  knew  the  work  to  be  good. 
He  told  her  so  one  afternoon  when  they  were 
alone  together  again,  she  with  her  couch  drawn 
to  the  fire,  and  he  sitting  at  the  edge,  holding 
her  hand. 

"I'm  satisfied,"  he  declared.  "When  I  say 
'satisfied,'  you  know  what  I  mean,  of  course? 
It's  as  well  done  as  I  expected  to  do  it.  Another 
week  '11  see  it  finished,  darling." 

She  patted  his  arm. 


118  CYNTHIA 

"Poor  old  boy!  it  hasn't  been  a  happy  time  for 
him  either,  has  it?" 

"I've  known  j oilier.  But  you're  all  right  again 
now,  thank  God!  and  I'm  going  to  pack  you 
off  to  Bournemouth  or  somewhere  soon,  to  bring 
your  colour  back.  I  was  speaking  to  Dr.  Roberts 
about  it  this  morning.  He  says  it's  just  what 
you  need." 

"I've  been  very  expensive,  Humphrey,"  she 
said  wistfully.  "How  much?  We  didn't  think 
it  would  cost  so  much  as  it  has,  did  we?  You 
should  have  married  a  big,  strong  woman, 
Humphrey,  or " 

"Or  what?" 

"Or  nobody,"  she  murmured. 

The  eyes  that  she  bent  upon  the  fire  glittered. 
He  squeezed  her  hand,  and  laughed  constrain- 
edly. 

"I'm  quite  content,  thank  you,"  he  said,  in  as 
light  a  tone  as  he  could  manage.  "What  are  you 
crying  for?  Nurse  will  look  daggers  at  me  and 
think  I've  been  bullying  you.  Tell  me — was  she 
kind  to  you?  I've  been  haunted  by  the  idea  thajb 
she  was  treating  you  badly  and  you  were  too 
frightened  of  her  to  let  anyone  know.  You're 
such  a  kid,  little  woman,  in  some  things — such 
an  awful  kid." 

"Not  such  a  kid  as  you  imagine,"  she  said. 


CYNTHIA  119 

"I've  been  thinking;  I've  thought  of  many  things 
since  Baby  was  born.  Often  when  they  believed 
I  was  asleep,  I  used  to  lie  and  think  and  think, 
till  I  was  wretched." 

"What  did  you  think  of?"  asked  Kent  indul- 
gently. 

"You  mustn't  be  vexed  with  me  if  I  tell  you. 
I've  thought  that,  perhaps,  although  you  don't 
feel  it  yet — though  you  don't  suppose  you  ever 
mil  feel  it — it  might  have  been  best  for  you, 
really  and  seriously  best,  if  you  had  married  no- 
body, Humphrey — if  you  had  had  nothing  to 
interfere  with  your  work,  and  had  lived  on  with 
Mr.  Turquand  just  as  you  were.  There,  now 
you  are  vexed!  Bend  down,  and  let  me  smooth 
it  away." 

"What  can  have  put  such  a  stupid  idea  into 
your  head?"  said  Kent,  wishing  pityingly  that 
he  had  not  felt  it  quite  so  often.  "Don't  be  a 
goose,  sweetheart !  What  nonsense !  I  should  be 
lost  without  you." 

"I  think  I  suit  you  better  than  any  other  wom- 
an would,"  she  said,  with  pathetic  confidence. 
"But  if  you  had  kept  single?  That's  what  I've 
wondered — if  you  wouldn't  be  better  off  without 
a  wife  at  all.  Oh,  you  should  hear  some  of  the 
stories  Xurse  has  told  me  of  places  she  has  been 
in!    I  didn't  think  there  could  be  such  awfulness 


120  CYNTHIA 

in  the  world.  And  in  the  first  confinement,  too! 
It  makes  one  afraid  that  no  woman  can  ever  ex- 
pect to  understand  any  man." 

"Hang  your  nurse!"  said  Humphrey.  "Cack- 
ling old  fool!  I  suppose  in  every  situation  she 
is  in  she  talks  scandal  about  the  last,  and  where 
there  wasn't  any,  she  makes  it  up.  When  does 
she  go?" 

"She  can't  leave  Baby  until  we  get  another, 
you  know.    At  least,  I  hope  she  won't  have  to." 

"Another?" 

"Another  nurse.    Mamma  is  going  to  advertise 
in  The  Horning  Post  for  us  at  once.    We  want  a 
thoroughly  ^experienced  woman,  don't  we,  dear?; 
We  don't  know  anything  about  babies  ourselves, 
and " 

"Oh,  rather!  Poor  little  soul!  we  owe  him 
as  much  as  that.  Life  is  the  cost  of  the  parents' 
pleasure  defrayed  by  the  child.  We'll  make  the 
world  as  desirable  to  him  as  we  can." 

He  paused  for  her  to  comment  on  his  im- 
promptu definition  of  life,  by  which  he  was  agree- 
ably conscious  he  had  said  something  brilliant; 
but  it  passed  by  her  unheeded.  He  reflected  that 
Turquand  would  either  have  approved  it,  or 
picked  it  to  pieces,  and  that  for  it  to  go  unnoticed 
was  hard. 

She  looked  at  him  tenderly. 


CYNTHIA  121 

"I  knew  you'd  say  so.  It  doesn't  really  make 
much  difference  to  our  expenses  whether  we 
pay  twenty  pounds  a  year  or  twenty-five — and 
to  the  kind  of  nurse  we  shall  get  it  makes  all  the 
difference  on  earth.    What  shall  we  call  him?" 

"Him!    You're  not  going  to  get  a  man?" 

"Baby,  you  silly!  Have  you  thought  of  a 
name?    /have!" 

He  was  still  wishing  that  she  had  a  sense  of 
humour  and  occasionally  made  a  witty  remark. 

"What?"  he  asked. 

"Yours.  I  want  to  call  him  'Humphrey/ 
What  do  you  say  to  it?" 

"What  for?  It's  ugly.  You  said  so  the  first 
time  you  heard  it.  I  think  we  might  choose 
something  better  than  that." 

"But  it's  yours,"  she  persisted.     "I  want  him 

called  by  your  name — I  do,  I  do!"    She  held  his 

;  hand  tightly,  and  her  lips  trembled.    "If  ...  if 

I  were  ever  to  lose  you,  Humphrey,  I  should 

like  our  child  to  have  your  name.    Don't  laugh 

;  at  me,  I  can't  help  feeling  that.    That  night  when 

•  he  was  born — oh,  that  night !  shall  I  ever  forget 

!  it? — and  Dr.  Roberts  looked  across  at  me  and 

said,  'Well,  you  have  a  little  son  come  to  see  you, 

Mrs.  Kent,'  the  first  thing  I  thought  was,  'We 

can  call  him  "Humphrey."  '    I  wanted  to  say  it 

to  you  when  they  let  you  in,  but  I  couldn't,  I  was 


122  CYNTHIA 

so  tired;  I  thought  it  instead.  When  nurse 
brought  him  over  to  me,  or  when  he  cried,  or  when 
I  saw  him  moving  under  the  blanket  in  the  bas- 
sinet, I  thought,  'There's  my  other  Humphrey!' ' 

He  kissed  her,  and  sat  staring  at  the  fire,  his 
conscience  clamorous.  He  had  not  realised  that 
he  had  grown  so  dear  to  her,  and  the  discovery 
made  his  own  dissatisfaction  crueller.  He  felt 
a  thankless  brute,  a  beast.  It  seemed  to  him  mo- 
mentarily that  the  situation  would  be  much  less 
painful  if  the  disappointment  were  mutual — if 
she,  too,  were  discontented  with  the  bargain  she 
had  made.  To  listen  to  her  speaking  in  such  a 
way,  to  accept  her  devotion,  knowing  how  little 
devotion  she  inspired  in  return,  stabbed  him.  He 
asked  himself  what  he  had  done  that  she  should 
love  him  so  fondly.  He  had  not  openly  neglect- 
ed her,  but  secretly  he  had  done  it  often,  and  with 
relief.  Had  she  missed  him  when  he  had  shut 
himself  in  his  room,  not  to  write,  but  to  wish  that 
he  had  never  met  her?    His  mind  smote  him. 

The  question  obtruded  itself  during  the  follow- 
ing days,  but  now  at  least  his  plea  of  being  busy 
was  always  genuine  enough;  he  was  writing 
fiercely.  The  pile  of  manuscript  to  which  he  add- 
ed sheet  after  sheet  was  heavy  and  thick.  Then 
there  came  a  morning  when  he  went  to  bed  at 
three,  and  rose  again  at  eight,  to  begin  his  final 


CYNTHIA  123 

chapter,  having  told  the  servant  to  bring  him  a 
sandwich  and  a  glass  of  claret  for  luncheon. 
When  one  o'clock  struck,  and  she  entered,  to- 
bacco had  left  him  with  no  appetite  and  a  furred 
tongue.  Ke  threw  a  "thank  you"  at  her,  and 
remained  in  the  same  bent  attitude,  his  pen  tra- 
versing the  paper  steadily.  Ke  was  working 
with  an  exaltation  which  rarely  seized  him,  the 
exaltation  with  which  the  novelist  is  depicted 
in  fiction  as  working  all  the  time.  His  aspect  was 
untidy  enough  for  him  to  have  served  as  an  ad- 
mirable model  for  that  personage.  He  had  not 
shaved  for  three  days,  and  a  growth  of  stubbly 
beard  intensified  the  haggardness  that  came  of 
insufficient  sleep. 

The  wind  wTas  causing  the  fire  to  be  more  a 
nuisance  than  a  comfort,  and  every  now  and  then 
a  gust  of  smoke  shot  out  of  the  narrow  stove, 
obscuring  the  page  before  him,  and  making  him 
cough  and  swear.  The  atmosphere  was  villain- 
ous, but,  excepting  in  these  moments,  he  was  un- 
conscious of  it.  He  was  near  the  closing  lines. 
His  empty  pipe  was  gripped  between  his  teeth, 
and  he  wanted  to  refill  it,  but  he  couldn't  bring 
himself  to  take  his  eyes  from  the  paper  while  he 
stretched  for  his  pouch  and  the  matches.  He 
meant  to  refill  it  the  instant  he  had  written  the 
last  words,  but  now  an  access  of  uncertainty 


124  CYNTHIA 

assailed  him  and  he  could  not  decide  upon  them. 
He  stared  at  the  paper  without  daring  to  set 
a  sentence  down,  and  drew  at  the  empty  bowl 
mechanically,  his  palate  craving  for  the  taste  of 
tobacco,  while  his  sight  was  magnetised  by  the 
pen's  point  hovering  under  his  hand.  He  sat  so 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  he  wrote  with 
supreme  satisfaction  what  he  had  thought  of  first 
and  rejected.  His  pen  was  dropped.  Tie  drew 
a  breath  of  relief  and  thanksgiving,  and  lit  his 
pipe.    His  novel  was  done. 

Unlike  the  novelist  in  fiction  again,  he  did  not 
mourn  beautifully  that  the  characters  who  had 
peopled  his  solitude  for  twelve  months,  and  whom 
he  loved,  were  about  to  leave  him  for  the  harsher 
criticism  of  the  world.  He  was  profoundly  glad 
of  it.  He  felt  exhilaration  leap  in  his  jaded  veins 
as  he  picked  up  his  pen  and  added  "The  End." 
He  felt  that  he  was  free  of  an  enormous  load,  a 
tremendous  responsibility,  of  which  he  had 
acquitted  himself  well.  Almost  every  morning, 
with  rare  exceptions,  for  a  year  he  had,  so  to 
speak,  awakened  with  this  unfinished  novel  star- 
ing him  in  the  face ;  almost  every  night  for  a  year 
he  had  gone  up  the  stairs  to  the  bedroom  re- 
membering what  a  lump  of  writing  had  still  to  be 
accomplished.  And  now  it  was  done;  and  he 
couldn't  do  it  better.     Blessed  thought!     If  he 


CYNTHIA  125 

recast  it  chapter  by  chapter  and  phrase  by  phrase, 
he  could  not  handle  the  idea  more  carefully  or 
strongly  than  he  had  handled  it  in  the  bulky 
package  that  lay  in  front  of  him — the  story  told  I 
He  was  eager  to  forward  it  to  the  publishers 
without  delay,  but  Turquand  had  so  recently 
referred  to  his  expectation  of  reading  it  in  the 
manuscript  that  he  sent  it  to  Soho  first.  "Let  me 
have  it  back  quickly,"  he  begged;  and  the  jour- 
nalist's answer  in  returning  the  parcel  reached 
him  on  the  next  evening  but  one.  He  showed  it 
to  Cynthia  with  delight;  Turquand  wrote  very 
warmly.  The  manuscript  was  submitted  to 
Messrs.  Cousins  with  a  note,  requesting  them  to 
give  it  their  early  consideration;  and  now  Kent 
was  asked  constantly  by  the  Waif ords  if  they  had 
written  yet,  and  what  terms  he  had  obtained. 
Cynthia  had  not  regained  strength  enough  to 
care  to  travel  at  present,  and  her  parents  and 
brother  generally  spent  the  evening  at  No.  64, 
where,  truth  to  tell,  Kent  found  their  interest 
rather  a  nuisance.  His  father-in-law  evidently 
held  that  it  was  derogatory  for  him  to  be  kept 
waiting  a  fortnight  for  his  publishers'  offer,  and 
Mrs.  Walford  made  so  many  foolish  inquiries 
and  ridiculous  suggestions  that  he  was  sometimes 
in  danger  of  being  rude.  Caesar  alone  displayed 
no  curiosity  in  a  matter  so  frivolous,  but  listened 


126  CYNTHIA 

with  his  superior  air,  which  tried  Kent's  patience 
even  more.  The  fat  young  man's  debut  had 
been  postponed  again.  Now  he  was  to  appear 
for  certain  in  the  spring,  and  he  explained,  in  a 
tone  implying  that  he  could,  if  he  might,  impart 
esoteric  facts,  that  the  delay  had  been  discreet. 

"No  outsider  can  have  any  idea,"  he  said 
languidly,  "what  wheels  within  wheels  there 
are  in  our  world."  He  meant  the  operatic  world, 
into  which  he  had  still  to  squeeze  a  foot.  "This 
last  season  it  would  have  been  madness  for  a  new 
bass  to  sing  in  London;  he  was  doomed  before  he 
opened  his  mouth — doomed!"  He  looked  at  the 
ceiling  with  a  meditative  smile,  as  if  dwelling 
upon  curiously  amusing  circumstances.  "Very 
funny!"  he  added. 

Excepting  his  master,  he  did  not  know  a  pro- 
fessional singer  in  England,  and,  whenever  a 
benefit  concert  was  to  be  given,  he  would  chase 
the  organiser  all  over  the  town  in  hansoms, 
and  telegraph  to  him  for  an  appointment  "on 
urgent  business"  in  the  hope  of  being  allowed  to 
sing.  But  his  assurance  was  so  consummate  that 
— although  one  was  aware  he  had  not  yet  done 
anything  at  all — he  almost  persuaded  one  while 
he  talked  that  he  was  the  pivot  round  which  the 
musical  world  revolved.  Caesar  excepted,  Kent 
had  really  no  grounds  for  complaint  against  the 


CYNTHIA  127 

Walfords.  The  others'  quer.'es  might  worry  him, 
but  their  cordiality  was  extreme ;  and  they  made 
Cynthia  relate  Turquand's  opinion  of  the  book — 
for  which  no  title  had  been  found — again  and 
again.  Even  the  stock-jobber's  view  that  a  fort- 
night's silence  was  surprising  was  due  to  an  ex- 
aggerated estimate  of  the  author's  importance, 
and  Mrs.  Walford,  when  she  refrained  from  giv- 
ing him  advice,  appeared  to  think  him  a  good  deal 
cleverer  now  that  the  manuscript  was  in  Messrs. 
Cousins'  hands  than  she  had  done  while  it  was 
lying  on  his  desk.  Indeed,  there  were  moments 
at  this  stage  when  his  mother-in-law  gushed  at 
him  with  an  ardour  that  reminded  him  of  the 
early  days  of  his  acquaintance  with  her  in  Dieppe. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"Well,  have  those  publishers  of  yours  made 
you  an  offer  yet?" 

"No,  sir;  I  haven't  heard  from  them." 

"You  should  drop  them  a  line,"  said  Walford 
irritably.  "Damn  nonsense!  How  long  have 
they  had  the  thing  now?" 

"About  three  weeks." 

"Drop  'em  a  line !  They  may  keep  you  wait- 
ing a  month  if  you  don't  wake  them  up.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Cynthia?    He  ought  to  write." 

"Oh,  I  expect  we  shall  have  a  letter  in  a  day 
or  two,  papa.  We  were  afraid  you  weren't  com- 
ing round  this  evening;  you're  late.  How  d'ye 
do,  mamma?    How  d'ye  do,  Aunt  Emily?" 

"And  how  are  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Walford. 
"Have  you  made  up  your  mind  about  Bourne- 
mouth yet?  She  is  quite  fit  to  go  now,  Hum- 
phrey. You  ought  to  pack  her  off  at  once; 
there's  nothing  to  wait  for  now  you've  got  your 
nurse.    How  does  she  suit  you?" 

"She  seems  all  right,"  said  Cynthia,  rather 
doubtfully.  "A  little  consequential,  perhaps — s 
that's  all." 

12s 


CYNTHIA  129 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  stand  any  airs  and  graces; 
put  her  in  her  place  at  the  start.  What  has  she 
done?" 

"She  hasn't  done  anything,  only " 

"She's  our  first,"  explained  Kent,  "and  we're 
rather  in  awe  of  her.  She  was  surprised  to  find 
that  there  weren't  two  nurseries — she  is  frequent- 
ly 'surprised,'  and  then  we  apologise  to  her." 

"Don't  be  so  absurd!"  murmured  his  wife;  "he 
does  exaggerate  so,  mamma!  No;  but,  of  course, 
she  has  always  been  in  better  situations,  with 
people  richer  than  us.  .  .  .  'Us'?"  she  repeated 
questioningly,  looking  at  Kent  with  a  smile. 

He  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"Than  we,  then!  And  she's  the  least  bit  in  the 
world  too  self-important." 

"Than  'we'?"  echoed  Mrs.  Walford.  "Than 
'we'?    Nonsense!    'Than  us9?' 

Kent  pulled  his  moustache  silently,  and  there 
was  a  moment's  pause. 

"Than  us!"  said  the  lady  again  defiantly.  "Un- 
questionably it  is  'than  us3!" 

"Very  well,"  he  replied;  "I'm  not  arguing 
about  it,  mater." 

"1  always  say  'than  us,' "  said  Sam  Walford 
good-humouredly.     "Ain't  it  right?" 

"No,"  said  Miss  Wix;  "of  course  it  isn't, 
Sam!" 


130  CYNTHIA 

"Ridiculous!"  declared  Mrs.  Walford,  with 
asperity.  "  'Than  we'  is  quite  wrong — quite  un- 
grainmatical.  I  don't  care  who  says  it  isn't — I 
say  it  is/' 

"A  literary  man  might  have  been  supposed  to 
know,"  said  Miss  Wix  ironically.  "But  Hum- 
phrey is  mistaken  too,  then?" 

"What's  the  difference — what  does  it  matter?" 
put  in  Cynthia.  "There's  nothing^to  get  excited 
about,  mamma." 

"I'm  not  in  the  least  excited,"  said  her  mother, 
with  a  white  face;  "but  I  don't  accept  anybody's 
contradiction  on  such  a  point.  I'm  not  to  be  con- 
vinced to  the  contrary  when  I'm  sure  I'm  cor- 
rect." 

"Well,  let's  return  to  our  muttons,"  said  Kent. 
"Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  nurse,  and " 

"Oh,  you  are  very  funny!"  Mrs.  Walford  ex- 
claimed. "Let  me  tell  you,  you  don't  know  any- 
thing about  it.  And  as  to  Emily,  I  don't  take 
any  notice  of  her  at  all.  She  may  say  what  she 
likes." 

"What  I  like  is  decent  English,"  said  Miss 
Wix,  "since  you  don't  mind.  This  lively  conver- 
sation must  be  very  good  for  Cynthia.  Hum- 
phrey, you're  quite  a  member  of  the  family;  you 
see  we're  rude  to  one  another  in  front  of  you. 
Isn't  it  nice?" 


CYNTHIA  131 

"I  shouldn't  come  to  you  to  learn  politeness, 
either,"  retorted  Mrs.  Walford  hotly.  "I 
shouldn't  come  to  you  to  learn  grammar,  or  po- 
liteness either.  You're  most  rude  yourself — most 
ill-bred!" 

"That'll  do— that'll  do,"  said  the  stock-jobber; 
"we  don't  want  a  row.  Damn  it!  let  everybody 
say  what  they  choose;  it  ain't  a  hanging  matter, 
I  suppose,  if  they're  wrong!" 

"I'm  not  wrong,  Sam.  Humphrey,  just  tell 
me  this:  Do  you  say  'than  who'  or  'than  whom'? 
Now,  then!" 

"You  say  'than  whom,'  but  that's  the  one  in- 
stance where  the  comparative  does  govern  the  ob- 
jective in  English.  And  Angus,  or  Morell,  or 
somebody  august,  denies  that  it  ought  to  govern 
it  there." 

Momentarily  she  looked  disconcerted.  Then 
she  said: 

"All  I  maintain  is  that  'than  we'  is  very  pe- 
dantic in  ordinary  conversation — very  pedantic 
indeed;  and  I  shall  stick  to  my  opinion  if  you 
argue  for  ever.  'Than  us'  is  much  more  usual, 
and  much  more  euphonious.  I  consider  it's  much 
more  euphonious  than  the  other.  I  prefer  it 
altogether." 

Miss  Wix  gave  a  sharp  little  laugh. 

"You  may  consider  it  more  euphonious  to  say 


132  CYNTHIA 

'heggs'  and  'happles,'  too,  but  that  doesn't  make 
it  right." 

Her  sister  turned  to  her  wrathfully,  and  the 
ensuing  passage  at  arms  was  terminated  by  the 
spinster  putting  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and 
beginning  to  cry. 

"I  won't  be  spoken  to  so,"  she  faltered — "I 
won't !  Oh,  I  quite  understand — I  know  what  it 
means;  but  this  is  the  last  time  I'll  be  trampled 
on  and  insulted — the  last  time,  Sam!" 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Emily;  nobody  wants  to 
'trample'  on  you.  You  can  give  as  good  as  you 
get,  too.  What  an  infernal  rumpus  about  noth- 
ing! 'Pon  my  soul!  I  think  you  have  both  gone 
crazy." 

"I'm  in  the  way — yes!  And  I'm  shown  every 
hour  that  I'm  in  the  way!"  she  sobbed,  in  cre- 
scendo. "Humphrey  is  a  witness  how  I  am  treat- 
ed. I  won't  stop  where  I'm  not  wanted.  This 
is  the  end  of  it.    I'll  go — I'll  take  a  situation!" 

Everybody  excepting  the  offender  en- 
deavoured to  pacify  her.  Cynthia  put  an  arm 
round  her  waist  and  spoke  consolingly,  while 
Walford  patted  her  on  the  back.  Humphrey 
brought  her  whisky-and-water,  but  she  waved  it 
violently  aside. 

"I'll  take  a  situation;  I've  made  up  my  mind. 
Thank  Heaven!  I'm  not  quite  dependent  on  a 


CYNTHIA  133 

sister  and  a  brother-in-law  yet.  Thank  Heaven! 
I've  the  health  to  work  for  my  living.  I'd  rather 
live  in  one  room  on  a  pound  a  week  than  remain 
with  you.  I  shall  leave  your  house  the  moment 
I  can  get  something  to  do.  I'll  be  a  paid  com- 
panion— I'll  go  into  a  shop !"  And  she  went  into 
hysterics. 

When  she  recovered,  she  drank  the  whisky-and- 
water  tearfully,  and  begged  Kent  to  take  her 
back  to  The  Hawthorns.    He  complied  amiably, 
and  tried  on  the  way  to  dissuade  her  from  her 
determination.    It  was  his  first  experience  of  this 
phase  of  Hiss  Wix,  and  he  was  a  good  deal  sur- 
prised by  the  valour  that  she  displayed.     Her 
weakness  had  passed,  and  the  light  of  resolution 
shone  in  the  little  woman's  eyes.     Her  nostrils 
were  dilated,  her  carriage  was  firm  and  erect.    He 
felt  that  it  was  no  empty  boast  when  she  asserted 
stoutly  that  she  would  go  to  a  registry-office  on 
the  morrow — nor  was  it;  as  much  as  that  she 
would  probably  do.    But  the  prospect  of  employ- 
ment was  as  the  martyr's  stake  or  an  arena  of 
!  lions,  to  her  mind ;  and,  after  the  office  had  been 
\  visited,  the  decision  of  her  manner  would  decrease, 
I  and  the  heroism  in  her  eyes  subside,  until  at  last 
|  she  trembled  in  a  cold  perspiration  lest  her  rela- 
tives should  take  her  at  her  word. 


13*  UIJN±±ilA 

"It'll  be  a  small  household  if  you  go,"  he  said; 
"I  suppose  Caesar  won't  live  at  home  after  he 
comes  out,  and  they  will  be  left  by  themselves." 

Miss  Wix  sniffed. 

"When  he  comes  out!" 

"Yes;  he  seems  to  have  been  rather  a  long 
while  doing  it.  But  there  can't  be  any  doubt 
about  it  this  time;  the  agreement  for  the  spring 
is  signed,  I  hear." 

They  were  passing  a  lamp-post.  Miss  Wix's 
mouth  was  the  size  of  a  sixpence,  and  her  eye- 
brows had  entirely  disappeared  under  her  bonnet. 

"It  always  is,"  she  said.  "The  agreements  are 
always  signed — and  written  in  invisible  ink.  I 
don't  seem  to  remember  the  time  when  that  young 
man  wasn't  coming  out  'next  spring,'  and  I  knew 
him  in  his  cradle.  He  was  an  affected  horror 
then." 

Kent  laughed  to  himself  in  walking  home;  he 
had  suspected  the  accuracy  of  the  proud  parents' 
statements  already,  just  as  he  had  suspected, 
when  he  had  been  invited  to  meet  an  operatic 
celebrity  at  The  Hawthorns,  who  it  was  that  sent 
the  telegram  of  regrets  and  apologies  that  bore 
the  star's  name.  He  wondered  how  much  the 
Walfords'  foolishness  and  his  pupil's  vanity  had 
been  worth  to  the  Italian  singing-master,  who 


CYNTHIA  135 

gesticulated  about  the  drawing-room  and  foretold 
such  triumphs. 

When  he  re-entered  No.  64,  he  was  relieved  to 
find  the  company  cheerful  again;  they  seemed 
even  to  be  in  high  spirits,  and  the  cause  was 
promptly  evident.  Cynthia  pointed  radiantly  to 
a  letter  lying  on  the  table. 

"For  you,"  she  cried,  "from  Cousins!  Be 
quick;  we're  all  dying  of  impatience.  How  did 
you  leave  Aunt  Emily?" 

"She's  going  to  bed,"  he  said,  tearing  the  en- 
velope open. 

His  heart  had  leapt,  and  he  trusted  only  that 
he  wasn't  destined  to  be  damped  by  the  suggested 
price.  The  others  sat  regarding  him  eagerly, 
waiting  for  him  to  speak.  Cynthia  tried  to  guess 
the  amount  by  his  expression. 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Walford  at  last— "Well? 
What  do  they  say?" 

Kent  put  the  note  down;  all  the  colour  had 
gone  from  his  face.  His  lips  twitched,  and  his 
voice  was  not  under  control  as  he  answered. 

"They  haven't  accepted  it,"  he  said;  "they're 
returning  it  to  me.    They  don't  think  it  good." 

"What?"  she  ejaculated. 

"Oh,  Humphrey!"  he  heard  Cynthia  gasp; 
and  then  there  were  seconds  in  which  he  was 


136  CYNTHIA 

conscious  that  everyone  was  staring  at  him,  sec- 
onds in  which  he  would  have  paid  heavily  to  be  in 
the  room  alone.  That  the  book  might  be  refused, 
after  such  reviews  as  had  been  written  of  his  last, 
was  a  calamity  that  he  had  never  contemplated, 
and  he  was  overwhelmed.  When  he  had  been 
despondent  he  had  imagined  the  publishers  pro- 
posing to  pay  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  for  it; 
when  he  had  been  gloomier  still,  he  had  fancied 
that  the  sum  would  be  a  hundred  and  fifty;  in 
moments  of  profound  depression  he  had  even 
groaned,  "I  shan't  get  a  shilling  more  for  it  than 
I  did  for  the  other  one!"  But  to  be  rejected, 
"declined  with  thanks,"  was  a  shock  for  which 
he  was  wholly  unprepared.    It  almost  dazed  him. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Sam  Wal- 
ford,  breaking  the  silence  angrily.  "Xot  accept- 
ing it?  But — but — this  is  a  fine  sort  of  thing! 
It  takes  you  a  year  to  write,  and  then  they  don't 
accept  it.  A  damn  good  business  you're  in,  upon 
my  word !" 

"Hush,  Sam!"  said  Mrs.  Walford.  "What  do 
they  say?  what  reason  do  they  give?  Let  me 
look!"  ' 

Kent  handed  the  letter  to  her  mutelv,  his  wife 
watching  him  with  startled,  pitying  eyes,  and 
she  read  it  aloud: 


CYNTHIA  187 

"  'Dear  Sir, 

"  'We  are  obliged  by  the  kind  offer  of 
your  IMS.,  to  which  our  most  careful  considera- 
tion has  been  given.'  " 

"Been  better  if  they'd  considered  it  a  little 
less!"  grunted  Walford. 

"  'We  regret  to  say,  however,  that,  in  view  of 
our  reader's  report,  we  are  reluctantly  forced  to 
decide  that  the  construction  of  the  story  precludes 
any  hope  of  its  succeeding.  The  faults  seem  in- 
herent to  the  story,  and  irremediable,  and  we  are 
therefore  returning  the  MS.  to  you  to-day,  with 
our  compliments  and  thanks.'  " 

"Ha,  ha!"  said  Kent  wildly;  "they  return  it 
with  their  compliments!" 

"I  don't  see  anything  to  laugh  at!"  said  his 
mother-in-law  with  temper;  "I  call  it  dreadful. 
Anything  but  funny,  I'm  sure !" 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  said.  "I  call  it  very 
funny.  There's  a  touch  of  humour  about  their 
'compliments'  that'd  be  hard  to  beat." 

"Ah,"  said  Walford,  "your  mother-in-law's 
sense  of  humour  isn't  so  keen  and  'literary'  as 
yours.  She  only  sees  that  your  year's  work  's 
not  worth  a  tinker's  curse!" 

"Papa!"  murmured  Cynthia,  wincing. 


138  CYNTHIA 

Kent's  mouth  closed  viciously. 

"Against  your  judgment  on  such  a  matter, 
sir/'  he  said,  "of  course  there  can  be  no  appeal." 

"It  ain't  my  judgment,"  answered  Walford; 
"it's  your  own  publishers'.  It's  no  good  putting 
on  the  sarcastic,  my  boy.  Here" — he  caught  up 
the  letter  and  slapped  it — "here  you've  got  the 
opinion  of  a  practical  man,  and  he  tells  you  the 
thing's  valueless.  There's  no  getting  away  from 
facts." 

"And  I  say  the  thing's  strong,  sound  work," 
exclaimed  Kent,  "and  the  reader's  an  ass!  Oh, 
wrhat's  the  use  of  arguing  with  you?  You  see  it 
rejected,  and  so  to  you  it's  rubbish;  and  when  you 
see  it  paid  for,  to  you  it  will  be  very  good !  I  want 
some  whisky — has  'Aunt  Emily'  drunk  it  all?" 
He  helped  himself  liberally,  and  invited  his  fath- 
er-in-law to  follow  his  example.  Walford  shook 
his  head  with  a  grunt.  "You  won't  have  a  drink? 
I  will !  I  want  to  return  thanks  for  Messrs.  Cous- 
ins5 compliments.  It's  very  flattering  to  receive 
compliments  from  one's  publishers.  I'm  afraid 
you  none  of  you  appreciate  it  so  much  as  you 
ought.  We're  having  a  ripping  evening,  aren't 
we,  with  hysterics  and  rejections?  And  whisky's 
good  for  both.  Well,  sir,  what  have  you  got  to 
say  next?" 

"I  think  we'll  say  'good-night,'  "  said  Mrs. 


CYNTHIA  139 

Waif  or  d  coldly;  "I'll  be  round  in  the  morning, 
Cynthia.    Come,  Sam,  it's  past  ten!" 

She  rose,  and  put  on  her  things,  Kent  assisting 
her.  The  stock-jobber  took  leave  of  him  with 
a  scowl;  and  when  the  last  "good-night"  had 
been  exchanged,  Cynthia  and  the  unfortunate 
author  stood  on  the  hearth  vis-a-vis.  The  girl  was 
relieved  that  her  parents  were  gone.  The  atmos- 
phere had  been  electric  and  made  her  nervous  of 
what  might  happen  next.  She  had  been  looking 
forward,  besides,  to  consoling  him  when  the  door 
closed — to  his  lying  in  her  arms  under  her  kisses, 
while  she  smoothed  away  his  mortification.  She 
could  enter  into  his  mood  to-night  better  than  she 
had  entered  into  any  of  his  moods  yet,  and  she 
ached  with  sorrow  for  him.  To  turn  to  his  wife 
on  any  matters  connected  with  his  work,  however, 
never  entered  his  head  any  more;  so  when  she 
murmured  deprecatingly,  "Papa  didn't  mean 
anything  by  what  he  said,  darling;  you  mustn't 
be  vexed  with  him,"  all  he  replied  was,  "Oh,  he 
hasn't  made  an  enemy  for  life,  my  dear!  If 
you're  going  up  to  your  room  now,  I  think  I'll 
take  a  stroll." 

She  said,  "Do,  and — and  cheer  up !"  But  her 
heart  sank  miserably.  He  dropped  a  kiss  on  her 
cheek  with  a  response  as  feeble  as  her  own,  and 
went  out.    A  woman  may  have  little  comprehen- 


140  CYNTHIA 

sion  of  her  husband's  work,  and  yet  feel  the  ten- 
derest  sympathies  for  the  disappointments  that 
it  brings  him,  but  of  this  platitude  the  novelist 
had  shown  himself  ignorant. 

Cynthia  did  not  go  up  to  her  room  at  once. 
She  sat  down  by  the  dying  fire  and  wondered. 
She  wondered — in  the  hour  in  which  she  had  come 
mentally  nearest  to  him — if,  after  all,  Hum- 
phrey and  she  were  united  so  closely  as  she  had 
supposed. 


CHAPTER  XII 

She  loved  him.  When  they  married,  perhaps 
neither  had  literally  loved  the  other,  but  the  girl 
had  roused  much  stronger  feelings  in  the  man 
than  the  man  had  wakened  in  the  girl.  To-day 
the  position  was  reversed;  and  her  perception 
that  he  did  not  find  her  so  companionable  as  she 
had  dreamed  was  the  beginning  of  a  struggle  to 
render  herself  a  companion  to  him. 

If  she  had  been  a  woman  of  keener  intuitions, 
she  must  have  perceived  it  long  ago,  but  her  in- 
tuitions were  not  keen.  She  was  not  so  dull  as 
he  thought  her,  nor  was  she  so  dull  as  when  she 
married,  but  a  woman  of  the  most  rapid  intelli- 
gence she  would  never  be.  Her  heart  was  great- 
er than  her  mind — much  greater;  her  heart  en- 
titled her  to  a  devotion  that  she  was  far  from  re- 
ceiving. To  her  mind  marriage  had  made  a 
trifling  difference;  her  sensibilities  it  had  devel- 
oped enormously.  Her  husband  overlooked  her 
sensibilities,  and  chafed  at  her  mind.  Fortunately 
for  her  peace,  her  tardy  perception  of  their  rela- 
tions did  not  embrace  quite  so  much  as  that. 

141 


I4£  CYNTHIA 

She  stayed  at  Bournemouth  for  a  fortnight, 
and  when  she  came  home  her  efforts  to  acquire 
the  quickness  that  she  lacked,  to  talk  in  the  same 
strain  as  Kent,  to  utter  the  kind  of  extravagance 
which  seemed  to  he  his  idea  of  wit,  were  laboured 
and  pathetic.  Especially  as  he  did  not  notice 
them.  She  read  the  books  that  he  admired,  and 
was  bored  by  them  more  frequently  than  she  was 
moved.  She  attempted,  in  fact,  to  mould  herself 
upon  him,  and  she  attempted  it  with  such  scanty 
encouragement,  and  with  so  little  apparent  result, 
that,  if  her  imitation  had  not  become  instinctive 
by  degrees,  she  would  have  been  destined  to  re- 
nounce it  in  despair. 

He  was  not  at  this  time  the  most  agreeable 
of  models;  he  was  too  much  humiliated  and  too 
anxious.  Though  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walford  were 
superficially  affable  again,  he  felt  a  difference 
that  he  could  not  define  in  their  manner,  and 
was  always  uncomfortable  in  their  presence.  He 
had  called  the  book  The  Eye  of  the  Beholder, 
and  he  submitted  it  to  Messrs.  Percival  and  King. 
But  February  waned  without  any  communication 
coming  from  the  firm,  and  once  more  the  Wal- 
fords  asked  him  almost  every  day  if  he  had  "any 
news."  His  only  prop  now  was  Turquand,  whom 
he  often  went  to  town  to  see.  Turquand  had  been 
genuinely  dismayed  by  Messrs.  Cousins'  refusal, 


CYNTHIA  143 

! 
and  it  was  by  his  advice  that  the  author  had 
chosen  Percival  and  King.  Kent  awaited  their 
verdict  feverishly.  Not  only  was  his  humiliation 
bad  to  bear,  but  his  financial  position  was  begin- 
ning to  be  serious,  and  the  Walfords'  knowledge 
of  the  fact  aggravated  the  unpleasantness  of  it. 

Messrs.  Percival  sent  the  manuscript  back  at 
the  end  of  April.  They  did  not  offer  any  criti- 
cism upon  the  work;  they  regretted  merely  that 
in  the  present  state  of  the  book  market  they  could 
not  undertake  the  publication  of  The  Eye  of  the 
Beholder. 

Then  the  novelist  packed  it  up  again,  and  post- 
ed it  to  Fendall  and  Green.  Messrs.  Fendall  and 
Green  were  longer  in  replying,  and  the  fact  of  the 
second  rejection  could  not  be  withheld  from  the 
Walfords.  After  they  had  heard  of  it,  the  change 
in  their  manner  towards  him  was  more  marked. 
They  obviously  regarded  him  as  a  poor  pretender 
in  literature,  and  her  mother  admitted  as  much 
to  Cynthia  once. 

"Well,  mamma,"  said  Cynthia  valiantly,  "I 
don't  see  how  you  can  speak  like  that!  It's  ter- 
ribly unfortunate,  and  he's  very  worried,  but  you 
know  what  Humphrey's  reviews  have  been — 
nothing  can  take  away  the  success  he  has  had/3 

"Oh,  "reviews'!"  said  Mrs.  Walford,  with  im- 
patience.   "He  mustn't  talk  to  us  about  'reviews' ! 


144  CYNTHIA 

Of  course  all  those  were  'worked'  for  him  by 
Cousins.  We  are  behind  the  scenes,  we  know 
what  such  things  are  worth." 

This  conviction  of  hers,  that  his  publishers  had 
paid  a  few  pounds  to  the  leading  London  papers 
to  praise  him  in  their  columns,  was  not  to  be 
shaken.  Cynthia  did  not  repeat  it  to  him,  and 
Kent  did  not  divine  it,  but  Miss  Wix — who  had 
consented  to  remain  at  The  Hawthorns — ap- 
peared quite  a  lovable  person  to  him  now  in  com- 
parison with  his  wife's  mother.  Of  intention 
Louisa  did  not  snub  him,  the  stock-jobber  was 
not  rude  to  him  deliberately,  but  both  felt  that 
their  girl  had  done  badly  indeed  for  herself,  and 
their  very  tones  in  addressing  him  wrere  new  and 
resentful. 

In  secret  they  were  passionately  mortified  on 
another  score.  Their  prodigy,  the  coming  bass, 
had  once  more  failed  to  secure  a  debut,  and  at 
last  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  admit  that 
the  thought  of  a  musical  career  must  be  aban- 
doned. The  circumstances  surrounding  this  final 
failure  were  veiled  in  mystery,  even  from  Cyn- 
thia, but  the  fact  wTas  sufficiently  damning  in  it- 
self. The  wily  Pincocca  was  paid  fees  no  longer, 
and  Caesar  took  a  trip  to  Berlin  with  a  company- 
promoter  whom  his  father  knew,  and  who  did  not 


CYNTHIA  145 

speak  German,  while  his  mother  invented  an  ex- 
planation. 

It  was  trying  for  the  Walfords,  both  their 
swans  turning  out  to  be  ganders  at  the  same  time, 
and  that  one  of  them  had  been  acquired,  not 
hatched,  was  more  than  they  could  forgive  them- 
selves, or  him.  There  were  occasions  soon  when 
Kent  was  more  than  slighted,  when  no  disguise 
was  made  at  all.  One  day  in  July,  Waif  ord  said 
to  him: 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Humphrey,  this  can't 
go  on!  You'll  have  to  give  your  profession  up 
and  look  for  a  berth,  my  boy.  How's  your  ac- 
count now?" 

"Pretty  low,"  confessed  his  son-in-law,  feeling 
like  a  lad  rebuked  for  a  misdemeanour. 

Waif  ord  looked  at  him  indignantly. 

"Ha!"  he  said.  "It's  a  nice  position,  'pon 
my  word!  And  no  news,  I  suppose — nothing 
fresh?" 

"Nothing,  sir." 

"You'll  have  to  chuck  it  all.  You'll  have  to 
chuck  this  folly  of  yours,  and  put  your  shoulder 
to  the  wheel  and  work." 

"I  thought  I  did  work,"  said  Kent  doggedly. 
"Do  you  think  literature  is  a  game?" 

"I  think  it's  an  infernal  rotten  game — yes!" 


146  CYNTHIA 

"Ah,  well,  there,"  said  Kent,  "many  literary 
men  have  agreed  with  you." 

"You'll  have  to  put  your  mind  to  something 
serious.  If  you  only  earn  thirty  bob  a  week,  it's 
more  than  your  novels  bring  you  in.  What  your 
wife  and  child  will  do,  God  knows — have  to  come 
to  us,  I  suppose.  A  fine  thing  for  a  girl  married 
eighteen  months!" 

"She  hasn't  arrived  at  it  yet,"  answered  Kent, 
very  pale,  "and  I  don't  fancy  she  will.  Many 
thanks  for  the  invitation." 

Walford  stopped  short — they  had  met  in  the 
High  Road — and  cocked  his  head,  his  legs  apart. 

"Will  you  take  a  berth  in  the  City  for  a  couple 
of  quid,  if  I  can  get  you  one?"  he  demanded 
sharply. 

"No,"  said  Kent,  "I'll  be  damned  if  I  will! 
I'll  stick  to  my  pen,  whatever  happens,  and  I'll 
stick  to  my  wife  and  child,  too  I" 

The  other  did  not  pursue  the  conversation,  but 
the  next  time  that  Humphrey  saw  Mrs.  Walford 
she  told  him  that  his  father-in-law  was  very  much 
incensed  against  him  for  his  ingratitude. 

"It  is  sometimes  advisable  for  a  man  to  change 
his  business,"  she  said.  "A  man  goes  into  one 
business,  and  if  it  doesn't  pay  he  tries  another. 
Your  father-in-law  is  much  older  than  you,  and 
— er — naturally  more  experienced.    I  think  you 


CYNTHIA  147 

ought  to  listen  to  his  opinion  with  more  respect. 
Especially  under  the  circumstances." 

"Oh?"  he  murmured.  "Have  you  said  that 
to  Cynthia?" 

"No;  it  is  not  necessary  to  say  it  to  anybody 
but  you.  And  it  might  make  her  unhappy.  She 
is  troubled  enough  without!" 

She  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  said  it  to  her  with 
much  eloquence  the  previous  afternoon. 

"And  another  thing,"  she  continued:  "I  am 
bound  to  say  I  don't  see  any  grounds  for  your 
believing — er — er — that  your  profession  has  any 
prizes  in  store  for  you,  even  if  you  could  afford 
to  remain  in  it.  You  mustn't  mind  my  speaking 
plainly,  Humphrey.  You  are  a  young  man,  and 
— er — you  have  no  one  to  advise  you,  and  you 
may  thank  me  for  it  one  day." 

"Let  me  thank  you  now,"  he  said,  righting  to 
|  conceal  his  rage. 

"If  you  can,"  she  said;  "if  you  feel  it,  I  am 
very  glad.  You  see  what  you  have  done:  you 
wrote  a  book,  which  you  got  very  little  for — some 
nice  reviews" — she  smiled  meaningly — "which 
we  needn't  talk  about.  And  then  you  spend  a 
year  on  another,  which  nobody  wants.  To  suc- 
ceed as  a  novelist,  one  must  have  a  very  strong 
gift ;  there  is  no  doubt  about  it.  A  novelist  must 
be  very  brilliant  to  do  any  good  to-day — very 


148  CYNTHIA 

brilliant.  He  wants — er — to  know  the  world — 
to  know  the  world,  and — er — oh,  he  must  be  very 
polished — very  smart !" 

"I  see,"  he  said  shakily,  as  she  paused.  "You 
don't  think  I've  the  necessary  qualifications?" 

"You  have  aptitude,"  she  said;  "you  have  a 
certain  aptitude,  of  course,  but  to  make  it  your 

profession So  many  young  men,  who  have 

been  educated,  could  write  a  novel.  You  happen 
to  have  done  it ;  others  haven't  had  the  time.  They 
open  a  business,  or  go  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  or 
perhaps  they  haven't  the  patience.  I'm  afraid 
your  publishers  did  you  a  mistaken  kindness  by 
those  unfortunate  reviews." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  he  asked.  "Yes,  the  re- 
viewers didn't  agree  with  you,  did  they?" 

She  smiled  again,  and  waved  her  hands  ex- 
pressively. 

"Oh,  they  were  very  pretty,  very  nice  to  have; 
but — er — newspaper  notices  do  not  take  us  in. 
Naturally,  they  were  paid  for.  Cousins  ar- 
ranged with  the  papers  for  all  that." 

"With " 

He  looked  at  her  open-mouthed,  as  the  n?mes 
of  some  of  the  papers  recurred  to  him. 

"With  them  all,"  she  said.  "Oh  yes!  You 
must  remember  we  are  quite  behind  the  scenes." 

"Pincocca,"  he  said  musingly.    "Yes,  you  knew 


CYNTHIA  149 

Pincocca.  But  he  was  a  singing-master,  and  he 
doesn't  come  here  now." 

"Oh,  Pincocca  was  one  of  many — one  of  very 
many."  She  giggled  nervously.  "How  very  ab- 
surd that  you  should  suppose  I  meant  Pincocca! 
You  mustn't  forget  that  Caesar  knows  everybody. 
I'm  almost  glad  he  isn't  going  on  the  stage,  for 
that  reason.  He  brought  such  crowds  to  the 
house  at  one  time  that  really  we  lived  in  a  whirl. 
I  believe — between  ourselves — that  this  man  he 
has  gone  to  Berlin  with  is  at  the  bottom  of  his 
throwing  up  his  career,  if  financier.  A  Mr. 
JMcCullough.  One  of  the  greatest  powers  in  the 
City.  And — er — Caesar  was  always  wonderfully 
shrewd  in  these  things.  Don't  say  anything,  but 
I  believe  McCullough  wants  to  keep  him !" 

"I  won't  say  anything,"  he  said. 

"JMcCullough  controls  millions!"  she  gasped. 
"And  your  father-in-law  thinks,  from  rumours 
that  are  going  about,  that  he's  persuaded  Caesar 
to  join  him  in  some  negotiations  that  he  has 
with  the  German  Government.  Of  course  we 
mustn't  breathe  a  word  about  it.  Sh !  What  were 
we  saying?  Oh  yes,  I'm  afraid  those  unfortunate 
reviews  did  you  more  harm  than  good.  Nothing 
great  in  the  City  can  be  got  for  you,  because  you 
haven't  the  commercial  experience,  but  a  clerk- 
ship would  be  better  than  doing  nothing.    You 


150  CYNTHIA 

must  really  think  about  it,  Humphrey,  if  you 
can't  do  anything  for  yourself.  As  your  father- 
in-law  says,  you  are  sitting  down  with  your  hands 
in  your  pockets,  eating  up  your  last  few  pounds." 
It  occurred  to  her  that  a  clerkship  might  look 
small  beside  the  ease  with  which  her  son  was  se- 
curing a  partnership  in  millions.  "Of  course," 
she  added,  "Caisar  always  did  have  a  head  for 
finance.  And — er — he's  a  way  with  him.  He 
has  aplomb — aplomb  that  makes  him  immensely 
valuable  for  negotiations  with  a  Government. 
It's  different  for  Caesar." 

Kent  left  her,  and  cursed  aloud.  He  went  the 
same  evening  to  Turquand's,  partly  as  a  relief  to 
his  feelings,  and  partly  to  ask  his  friend's  opinion 
of  the  feasibility  of  his  obtaining  journalistic 
work. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  talk!"  he  exclaimed,  as 
he  flung  himself  into  the  rickety  chair  that  used 
to  be  his  own.  "Say  anything  you  like,  but  talk. 
I've  just  had  an  hour  and  a  half  of  my  mother- 
in-law  neat!  Take  the  taste  out  of  my  mouth. 
Turk,  I  wish  I  were  dead !  What  the  devil  is  to 
be  the  end  of  it?  The  Walfords  say  'a  clerk- 
ship'! Oh,  my  God,  you  should  hear  the  Wal- 
fords! I've  'a  little  aptitude,'  but  I  mustn't  be 
conceited.  I  mustn't  seriously  call  myself  a 
novelist.    I've  frivolled  away  a  year  on  The  Eye 


CYNTHIA  151 

of  the  Beholder,  and  Cousins  squared  the  review- 
ers for  me  on  The  Spectator  and  The  Saturday 
and  the  rest!  Look  here,  I  must  get  something 
to  do.  Don't  you  know  of  anything,  can't  you 
introduce  me  to  an  editor,  isn't  there  anything 
stirring  at  all  ?  I'm  buried ;  I  live  in  a  red-brick 
tomb  in  Streatham;  I  hear  nothing,  and  see  no- 
body, except  my  blasted  parents-in-law.  But 
you're  in  the  thick  of  it;  you  sniff  the  mud  of 
Fleet  Street  every  day;  you're  the  salaried  sub  of 
a  paper  that's  going  to  put  a  cover  on  itself  and 

'throw  it  in'  at  the  penny;  you " 

"Yes,"  said  Turquand,  "I 

*  'Ave  flung  my  thousands  gily  ter  the  benefit  of  tride, 
And  gin'rally  (they  tells  me)  done  the  grand.' 

It  looks  like  it,  doesn't  it?" 

"I  know  all  about  that!  But  surely  you  can 
tell  me  of  a  chance?  I  don't  say  an  opening, 
but  a  chance  of  an  opening.  Man,  the  outlook's 
awful.    I  shall  be  stony  directly.    You  must !" 

"Fendall  and  Green  haven't  written,  eh?" 

"No;  their  regrets  haven't  come  yet.  How 
about  short  stories?" 

"You  didn't  find  'em  particularly  lucrative, 
did  you?" 

"A  guinea  each;  one  in  six  months.    No;  but 


152  CYNTHIA 

I  want  to  be  invited  to  contribute:  'Can  you 
let  us  have  anything  this  month,  Mr.  Kent?' ' 

"My  dear  chap!  should  I  have  stuck  to  The 
Outpost  all  these  years  if  I  had  such  advice  to 
give  away?  I  did" — he  coughed,  and  spat  out 
an  invisible  shred  of  tobacco — "I  did  stick  to  it." 

"You  weren't  going  to  say  that!  You  were 
going  to  say,  'I  did  advise  you  once,  but  you 
"would  marry!'  Well,  I  don't  complain  that  I 
married.  The  only  fault  I  have  to  find  with  my 
wife  is  that  she's  the  Walford's  daughter.  She's 
not  literary,  but  she's  a  very  good  girl.  Don't 
blink  facts,  Turk;  my  money  would  have  lasted 
longer  if  I  hadn't  married,  but  I  shouldn't  have 
got  my  novel  taken  on  that  account.  The  point 
of  this  situation  is  that,  after  being  lauded  to 
the  skies  by  every  paper  of  importance  in  Eng- 
land, I  can't  place  the  book  I  write  next  at  any 
price  at  all,  nor  find  a  way  to  earn  bread  and 
cheese  by  my  pen!  If  a  musician  had  got  such 
criticisms  on  a  composition,  he'd  be  a  made  man. 
If  an  artist  had  had  them  on  a  picture,  the  ball 
would  be  at  his  feet.  If  an  actor  had  got  them 
on  a  performance,  he'd  be  offered  engagements 
at  a  hundred  a  week.  It's  only  in  literature  that 
such  an  anomalous  and  damnable  condition  of 
affairs  as  mine  is  possible.    You  can't  deny  it." 

"I  don't,"  said  Turquand. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Nor  did  the  conference,  which  was  protracted 
until  a  late  hour,  provide  an  outlet  to  the  dilem- 
ma; it  was  agreeable,  but  it  did  not  lead  any- 
where. If  he  should  hear  of  anything,  he  would 
certainly  let  the  other  know;  that  was  the  most 
the  sub-editor  could  say.  Authors  are  not  of- 
fered salaries  to  write  their  novels,  and  Kent  was 
not  a  journalist  by  temperament,  nor  possessed 
of  any  journalistic  experience.  As  to  tales  or 
articles  for  The  Outpost,  that  paper  did  not  pub- 
lish fiction,  and  their  rate  for  other  matter  was 
seven  and  sixpence  a  column.  However,  some 
attempt  had  to  be  made,  and  Kent  went  to  town 
every  day,  and  Cynthia  saw  less  of  him  than 
when  he  had  been  writing  The  Eye  of  the  Be- 
holder. He  hunted  up  his  few  acquaintances, 
and  haunted  the  literary  club  that  he  had  joined 
in  the  flush  of  his  success.  He  applied  for  vari- 
ous posts  that  were  advertised  vacant,  and  he  in- 
serted a  skilfully-framed  advertisement.  No 
answer  arrived;  and  the  tradesmen's  bills,  and 
the  poor  rates,  and  the  gas  notices,  and  the  very 

153 


154  CYNTHIA 

competent  nurse's  wages,  continued  to  fall  due  in 
the  meanwhile.  When  the  competent  nurse's 
were  not  due,  the  incompetent  "general's"  were. 
Dr.  Roberts'  account  came  in,  and  the  sight  of 
his  pass-book  now  terrified  the  young  man. 

They  had  not  been  married  quite  two  years 
yet,  and  he  asked  himself  if  they  had  been  ex- 
travagant, in  view  of  this  evidence  of  the  rapidity 
with  which  money  had  melted;  but,  excepting 
the  style  in  which  they  had  furnished,  he  could 
not  perceive  any  cause  for  such  self-reproach. 
They  had  lived  comfortably,  of  course,  but  if  the 
novel  had  been  placed  when  it  was  finished,  they 
could  have  continued  to  live  just  as  comfortably 
while  he  wrote  the  next.  He  feared  they  would 
have  to  take  a  bill  of  sale  on  the  too  expensive 
furniture,  and  that  way  lay  destitution.  Cyn- 
thia's composure  in  the  circumstances  surprised 
him.    Pie  told  her  so. 

"It'll  all  come  right,"  she  said.  "You  are  sure 
to  get  something  soon,  and  perhaps  Fendall  and 
Green  will  accept  The  Eye  of  the  Beholder— 
fulsomely!" 

This  was  an  improvement,  for  a  few  months 
since  she  would  have  been  unable  to  recollect 
their  name  and  have  referred  to  them  vaguely  as 
"the  publishers."  He  felt  the  sense  of  intimacy 
deepen  as  "Fendall  and  Green"  dropped  glibly 


CYNTHIA  155 

from  her  lips,  and  the  "fulsomely"  made  him  feel 
quite  warm  towards  her.s 

"Have  you  told  your  people  what  a  tight  cor- 
ner we're  in?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Why  should  I?    That's  our  affair." 

"So  it  is,"  he  assented.  "Poor  little  girl!  it's 
'orrible  rough  on  you,  though;  I  wonder  you 
aren't  playing  with  straws.  You  didn't  know 
what  economy  meant  when  we  married." 

Praise  from  him  was  nectar  and  ambrosia  to 
her.  She  wanted  to  embrace  him,  but  felt  that  if 
she  embraced  the  opportunity  to  give  a  happy 
definition  of  "economy"  it  would  be  appreciated 
better.  She  perched  herself  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair,  and  struggled  to  evolve  an  epigram.  As 
she  could  not  think  of  one,  she  said : 

"What  nonsense!" 

"I  wish  you  had  read  the  book,  and  liked  it," 
said  Kent,  speaking  spontaneously. 

"Say  you  wish  I'd  read  it?"  replied  his  wife. 

"Oh,  you'd  like  it,  because  it  was  mine.  But  I 
mean  I  wish " 

"What?" 

"I  don't  know." 

She  twisted  a  piece  of  his  hair  round  her  dinger. 

"My  taste  is  much  maturer  than  it  was,"  she 
averred,  with  satisfaction.     "Somehow,  I  can't 


156  CYNTHIA 

stand  the  sort  of  things  that  used  to  please  me; 
I  don't  know  how  I  was  able  to  read  them.  They 
bore  me  now." 

He  smiled.  As  she  had  often  done  to  him  be- 
fore, she  seemed  a  child  masquerading  in  a  wom- 
an's robes. 

"You're  getting  quite  a  critic!" 

"Well,"  she  said  happily,  "you'll  laugh,  but 
I  got  A  Peacock's  Tail  from  the  library,  and 
when  the  review  in  The  Chronicle  came  out,  the 
reviewer  said  just  what  I'd  felt  about  it.  He 
did!    I'm  not  such  a  silly  as  you  think,  you  see." 

"My  love!"  he  cried,  "I  never  thought  you 
were  a  'silly.'  " 

"Not  very  wise,  though!  Oh,  I  know  what  I 
lack,  Humphrey;  but  I  am  better  than  I  was — 
I  am  really !  Remember,  I  never  heard  literature 
talked  about  until  I  met  you ;  it  was  all  new  to  me 
when  we  married,  and — if  you've  noticed  it — you 
aren't  very,  very  interested  in  anything  else.  The 
longer  we  live  together,  the  more — the  nicer  I 
shall  be." 

He  answered  lightly: 

"You're  nice  enough  now." 

But  he  was  touched. 

After  a  long  pause,  as  if  uttering  the  conclu' 
sion  of  a  train  of  thought  aloud,  she  murmured? 

"Baby's  got  your  shaped  head." 


CYNTHIA  157 

"I  hope  to  God  it'll  be  worth  more  to  him  than 
mine  to  me !"  he  exclaimed. 

She  was  silent  again. 

"What  are  you  so  serious  for,  all  of  a  sudden?" 
he  said,  looking  round. 

Cynthia  bent  over  him  quickly  with  a  caress, 
and  sprang  up. 

"It  was  you  who  wanted  the  t's  crossed  for 
once!"  she  said  tremulously.  "There,  now  I 
must  go  and  knock  at  the  nursery  door  and  ask 
if  I'm  allowed  to  go  in!" 

The  man  of  acute  perceptions  wondered  what 
she  meant,  and  in  what  way  he  had  shown 
himself  dull  at  comprehending  so  transparent  a 
girl. 

It  was  in  October,  when  less  than  twenty 
pounds  remained  to  them,  that  something  at  last 
turned  up.  Turquand  had  learnt  that  an  assist- 
ant-editor was  required  on  The  World  and  Ids 
Wife,  a  weekly  journal  recently  started  for  the 
benefit  of  the  English  and  Americans  in  Paris. 
The  Editor  was  familiarly  known  as  "Billy" 
Beaufort,  and  the  proprietor  was  a  sporting  baro- 
net who  had  reduced  his  income  from  fourteen 
thousand  per  annum  to  eight  by  financing,  and 
providing  with  the  diamonds,  which  were  the 
brightest  feature  of  her  performance,  a  lady  who 
fancied  that  she  was  an  actress.     Beaufort  had 


158  CYNTHIA 

been  the  one  dramatic  critic  who  did  not  imply- 
that  she  was  painful,  and  it  was  Beaufort  who  had 
latterly  assured  the  Baronet  that  The  World  and 
his  Wife  would  realise  a  fortune.  Pie  had  gone 
about  London  for  thirteen  years  assuring  people 
that  various  enterprises  would  realise  a  fortune 
— that  was  his  business — but  the  Baronet  was 
one  of  the  few  persons  who  had  believed  him. 
Then  Billy  Beaufort  took  his  watch,  and  his 
scarf-pin,  and  his  sleeve-links  away  from  Atten- 
borough's — when  in  funds  he  could  always  pawn 
himself  for  a  considerable  amount — and  turned 
up  again  resplendent  at  the  club,  whose  secretary 
had  been  writing  him  sharp  letters  on  the  subject 
of  his  subscription.  The  only  alloy  to  his  com- 
placence, though  it  did  not  diminish  it  to  any  ap- 
preciable degree,  was  that  he  was  scarcely  more 
qualified  to  edit  a  paper  than  was  a  landsman  to 
navigate  a  ship.  He  described  himself  as  a  jour- 
nalist, and  the  description  was  probably  as  ac- 
curate as  any  other  he  could  have  furnished  of  a 
definite  order;  but  he  was  a  journalist  whose  at- 
tainments were  limited  to  puffing  a  prospectus 
and  serving  up  a  rechauffe  from  Truth.  Never 
attached  to  a  paper  for  longer  than  two  or  three 
months,  he  was,  during  that  period,  usually  at- 
tached to  a  woman  too.  He  drove  in  hansoms 
every  day  of  the  year;  always  appeared  to  have 


CYNTHIA  159 

bought  his  hat  half  an  hour  ago;  affected  a  big 
picotee  as  a  buttonhole,  and  lived — nobody  knew 
how.  While  he  was  ridiculed  in  Fleet  Street  as 
a  Pressman,  he  was  treated  with  deference  there 
on  account  of  his  reputed  smartness  in  the  City, 
and — while  the  City  laughed  at  his  business  pre- 
tensions— there  he  was  respected  for  his  supposed 
abilities  in  Fleet  Street.  So  he  beamed  out  of  the 
hansoms  perkily,  and  drove  from  one  atmosphere 
of  esteem  to  another,  waving  a  gloved  hand,  on 
the  way,  to  clever  men  who  envied  him. 

In  days  gone  by  he  had  tasted  a  spell  of  actual 
prosperity.  By  what  coup  he  had  made  the 
money,  and  how  he  had  lost  it,  are  details,  but  he 
had  now  developed  the  fatal  symptom  of  dwell- 
ing lovingly  on  that  epoch  when  he  had  been  so 
lucky,  and  so  courted,  and  so  rich.  There  is  hope 
for  the  man  who  boasts  of  what  he  means  to  do ; 
there  is  hope  for  the  boaster  who  lies  about  what 
he  is  doing;  but  the  man  whose  weakness  is  to 
boast  of  what  he  once  did  is  doomed — he  is  a  man 
who  will  succeed  no  more.  If  the  sporting  Baro- 
net had  grasped  this  fact,  The  World  and  his 
Wife  would  never  have  been  started,  and  Billy 
Beaufort  would  not  have  been  looking  for  an  as- 
sistant-editor to  do  all  the  work. 

Kent  obtained  the  post.  The  man  with  whom 
Beaufort  had  parted  was  a  thoroughly  experi- 


160  CYNTHIA 

enced  journalist,  who  had  put  his  chief  in  the  way 
of  things,  but  had  subsequently  called  him  an  ass, 
and  what  Billy  sought  now  was  a  zealous  young 
fellow  who  would  have  no  excuse  for  giving  him- 
self airs.  Beaufort  believed  in  Turquandrs  opin- 
ion, and  had  always  thought  him  a  fool  for  being 
so  shabby,  knowing  him  to  have  ten  times  the 
brain-power  that  he  himself  possessed,  and  Tur- 
quand  had  blown  Humphrey's  trumpet  sturdily. 
He  did  more  than  merely  recommend  him ;  he  de- 
clared— with  a  recollection  of  the  nurse  and  baby 
— that  Kent  was  the  man  to  get,  but  that  he  was 
afraid  it  would  not  be  worth  his  while  to  accept 
less  than  seven  pounds  a  week.  When  the  matter 
was  settled,  Humphrey  sought  his  friend  again, 
and,  wringing  his  hand,  exclaimed: 

"You're  a  pal ;  but — but,  I  say !  What  are  an 
assistant-editor's  duties?" 

Exhilaration  and  misgiving  were  mixed  in 
equal  parts  in  his  breast. 

Turquand  laughed,  as  nearly  as  he  could  be 
said  ever  to  approach  a  laugh. 

"The  assistant-editor  of  The  World  and  his 
Wife  will  have  to  cut  pars  nimbly  out  of  the  Eng- 
lish society  journals  and  the  Paris  dailies,  and 
'put  'em  all  in  different  language — the  more  in- 
different, the  better!'  He  must  handle  the  scis- 
sors without  fatigue,  and  arrange  with  someone 


CYNTHIA  161 

on  this  side  to  supply  a  column  of  London  theat- 
rical news  every  week — out  of  The  Daily  Tele- 
graph, Say  with  me!  It's  worth  a  guinea,  and 
I  may  as  well  have  it  as  anybody  else." 

"You're  appointed  our  London  dramatic 
critic,"  said  Kent.    "Won't  you  have  thirty  bob?" 

"A  guinea's  the  market  price;  and  I  can  have 
some  cards  printed  and  go  to  the  theatres  for 
nothing,  you  see,  when  I  feel  like  it;  they  don't 
take  any  stock  in  The  Outpost.  He  must  attend 
the  repetitions  generates  himself — if  he  can  get 
in — and  make  all  the  acquaintances  he  can, 
against  the  time  when  the  rag  dies." 

"  'Dies'?"  echoed  Kent.    "Is  it  going  to  die?" 

"Oh,  it  won't  live,  my  boy!  If  it  had  been  a 
permanent  job,  I  shouldn't  have  handed  it  over 
to  you — I'm  not  a  philanthropist.  But  it  will 
give  you  a  chance  to  turn  round,  and  an  enlight- 
ened publisher  may  discern  the  merits  of  The  Eye 
of  the  Beholder  in  the  meanwhile.  You'd  better 
go  on  looking  for  something  while  you  are  on  the 
thing;  perhaps  you'll  be  able  to  get  the  Paris  Cor- 
respondence for  a  paper,  if  you  try." 

"What  more?  What  besides  the  scissors — 
nothing?" 

"There's  the  paste;  I  don't  imagine  you'll  need 
much  else." 

"You're  a  trump!"  repeated  Kent  gratefully. 


168  CYNTHIA 

"I  feel  an  awful  fraud  taking  such  a  berth,  Turk; 
but  in  this  world  one  has  to  do  what  one " 

"Can't!" 

"Exactly.  By  George !  it  seems  to  be  a  paying 
line." 

"There  is  always  room  at  the  top,  you  know," 
said  Turquand.  "When  you  rise  in  what  you 
can't  do,  the  emolument  is  dazzling." 

Beaufort  was  returning  to  Paris  the  same  day, 
and  he  was  anxious  for  Kent  to  join  him  there 
with  all  possible  speed.  Kent's  first  intention 
was  to  go  alone  and  let  Cynthia  follow  him  at  her 
leisure;  but  when  he  reached  home  and  cried, 
"  'Mary,  you  shall  drive  in  your  carriage,  and 
Charles  shall  go  to  Eton!'  "  she  refused  to  be  left 
behind. 

"I  can  be  ready  by  Wednesday  or  Thursday  at 
the  latest,"  she  exclaimed  delightedly,  when  ex- 
planations were  forthcoming.  "What  did  you 
mean  by  'Charles'  and  'Mary'?  Oh,  Humphrey, 
didn't  I  tell  you  it  would  all  come  all  right  ?  How 
lovely !  and  how  astonished  mamma  and  papa  will 
be!" 

"Yes,  I  fancy  it  will  surprise  'em  a  trifle,"  he 
said.  "We'll  go  round  there  this  evening,  shall 
we?  And  we'll  put  the  salary  in  francs — it 
sounds  more."  He  hesitated.  "I  say,  do  you 
think  Nurse  will  mind  living  in  Paris?" 


CYNTHIA  163 

Cynthia  paled. 

"I  must  ask  her;  I  hadn't  thought  of  that. 
Oh  .  .  .  oh,  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  able  to  persuade 
her!  It's  rather  a  hurry  for  her,  though,  isn't  it? 
She  does  so  dislike  being  hurried." 

"Tell  her  at  once,"  he  suggested;  "she'll  have 
all  the  more  time  to  prepare  in.  Run  up  to  her 
now." 

"Let — let  us  think,"  murmured  Cynthia;  "we'll 
consider.  .  .  .  Ann  must  be  sent  away,  and  we 
shall  have  to  give  her  a  month's  wages  instead  of 
notice." 

"She's  no  loss,"  he  observed.  "I  don't  know 
what  your  mother  ever  saw  in  her.  She  can't 
even  cook  a  steak,  the  wench  1" 

"She  fries  them,  dear." 

"I  know  she  does,"  said  Kent.  "A  woman 
who'd  fry  a  steak  would  do  a  murder.  Well, 
we  shall  have  to  give  her  a  month's  wages  in- 
stead of  notice — it's  an  iniquitous  law !  But  what 
about  Nurse?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Cynthia  nervously,  "if  you 
were  to  mention  it  to  her,  darling,  if  you  don't 
mind » 

"Of  course  I  don't  mind,"  he  answered,  but 
without  alacrity.  "What  an  idea!  Tell  Ann  to 
send  her  down." 

She  entered  presently,  an  important  young 


164  CYNTHIA 

person  in  a  stiff  white  frock;  and  he  played  witK 
the  newspaper,  trying  to  feel  that  he  had  grown 
quite  accustomed  to  seeing  an  important  young 
person  in  his  service. 

"You  wished  to  speak  to  me,  madam,  but  baby 
will  be  waking  directly " 

"I  shan't  keep  you  a  moment,"  said  Kent.  "Er 
— your  mistress  and  I  are  going  to  Paris;  we 
shall  be  there  some  time.  I  suppose  it's  all  the 
same  to  you  where  you  live  ?  We  want  you  to  be 
ready  by  Thursday,  Nurse." 

"To  Paris?"  said  Nurse,  with  cold  amazement, 
and  a  pause  that  said  even  more. 

Cynthia  became  engrossed  by  a  bowl  of  flow- 
ers, and  Kent  felt  that,  after  all,  Paris  was  a 
long  way  off. 

"I  suppose  it's  all  the  same  to  you  where  you 
live?"  he  said  again,  though  he  no  longer  sup- 
posed anything  of  the  sort.  "And  there  are  three 
days  for  you  to  pack  in,  you  know — three  nice 
full  days." 

"Three  days,  sir?"  she  echoed  reproachfully. 
"To  go  abroad!  May  I  ask  you  if  you  would 
be  staying  in  a  place  like  that  all  the  winter,  sir?" 

"Yes,  certainly  through  the  winter — or  pro- 
bably so.    It  mightn't  be  so  long;  it  depends." 

"I  could  not  undertake  to  leave  'ome  for  good, 


CYNTHIA  165 

gtr,"  said  the  nurse.  "I  am  engaged.  My  friend 
lives  in  'Olloway,  and " 

"Oh,  it  wouldn't  be  for  good,"  declared  Cyn- 
thia ingratiatingly;  "we  couldn't  stay  there  for 
good  ourselves — oh  no!  And,  of  course,  if  you 
found  we  stopped  too  long  to  suit  you,  Nurse, 
why,  you  could  leave  us  when  you  liked,  couldn't 
you?  Though  Mr.  Kent  and  I  would  both  be 
very  sorry  to  lose  you,  I'm  sure!"  They  looked 
at  her  pleadingly  while  she  meditated. 

"What  Baby  will  do,  Hi  don't  know,  madam," 
she  said;  "changing  his  cow,  poor  little  dear!" 

"Will  it  hurt  him?"  demanded  the  mother  and 
father,  in  a  breath. 

"If  you  have  the  doctor's  consent,  madam,  you 
may  chance  it.  It  isn't  a  thing  that  Hi  would 
i  ever  advise." 

"Well,  well,  look  here,"  said  Kent;  "we'll  see 
,  Dr.  Roberts  about  it  to-day,  and  if  he  says  there's 
no  risk,  that'll  settle  it.  You  will  get  ready  to 
start  Thursday  morning,  Nurse." 

"I  will  endeavour  to  do  so,  sir,"  she  said  with 
dignity. 

They  felt  that  on  the  whole  she  had  been  gra- 
cious. And  Kent,  having  obtained  Dr.  Roberts' 
sanction  to  change  the  cow,  commissioned  a  house- 
i  agent  to  try  to  let  No.  64  furnished  at  four 
guineas  a  week. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Lest  he  should  feel  unduly  elated,  The  Eye 
of  the  Beholder  came  back  on  Wednesday 
afternoon,  but  this  time  he  did  not  post  it  to 
another  firm  instanter.  He  could  not  very  well 
ask  for  it  to  be  returned  to  Paris,  and  he  left  it 
with  Turquand  when  he  bade  him  good-bye. 
"Send  it  where  you  like,"  he  begged;  "perhaps 
you  might  try  Farqueharsen  next.  Yes,  I've  ra- 
ther a  fancy  for  Farqueharsen!  But  let  it  make 
the  round,  old  chap,  and  drop  me  a  line  when 
there  aren't  any  more  publishers  for  it  to  go  to." 

The  nurse's  "endeavour"  was  crowned  by  suc- 
cess. The  Walfords  had  congratulated  him  so 
warmly  that  he  almost  began  to  think  they  were 
nice  people  again.  And  the  departure  was  made 
on  Thursday  morning  as  arranged. 

They  travelled,  of  course,  by  the  Newhaven 
route,  and  reached  the  gare  St.  Lazare  after  dark 
on  a  rainy  evening.  The  amount  of  luggage  that 
they  possessed  among  them  made  Kent  stare,  as 
he  watched  half  a  dozen  porters  hoisting  trunks, 
and  a  perambulator,  and  a  bassinet  on  to  the  bus, 

166 


CYNTHIA  167 

and  it  seemed  as  if  they  would  never  get  out  of 
the  station.  At  last  they  rattled  away,  through 
the  wet  streets,  the  baby  whimpering,  and  the 
nurse  flustered,  and  he  and  Cynthia  very  tired. 
They  drove  to  a  little  hotel  near  the  Madeleine, 
where  they  intended  to  stay  until  they  found  a 
suitable  pension  de  famille,  and  where  dinner  and 
the  warmth  of  beaune  was  very  grateful.  Nurse 
also  "picked  up"  after  the  waiter's  appearance 
with  her  tray  and  a  half -bottle  of  vin  ordinaire, 
and,  as  their  fatigue  passed,  exhilaration  was  in 
the  ascendant  once  more.  Cynthia's  recovery 
was  so  marked  that,  finding  the  rain  had  ceased 
and  the  moon  was  shining,  she  wanted  to  go  out 
and  look  at  the  Grand  Boulevard.  So  Hum- 
phrey and  she  took  a  stroll  for  an  hour,  and  said 
how  strange  it  was  to  think  that  they  had  come 
to  live  in  Paris,  and  how  funnily  things  happened. 
And  they  had  a  curacoa  each  at  a  cafe,  and  went 
back  to  their  fusty  red  room  on  the  third-floor, 
with  the  inevitable  gilt  clock  and  a  festooned 
bedstead,  quite  gaily. 

The  chambermaid  brought  in  their  chocolate 
at  eight  o'clock  next  morning,  and  her  brisk 
"Bonjour,  m'sieur  et  madame!"  sounded  much 
more  cheerful  to  them  both  than  Ann's  knock  at 
the  door,  with  "The  'ot  water,  mum!"  to  which 
they  were  accustomed.     The  sun  streamed  in 


168  CYNTHIA 

brilliantly  as  she  parted  the  window-curtains. 
After  the  chocolate  and  rolls  were  finished,  Kent 
proceeded  to  dress,  and  leaving  Cynthia  in  bed, 
betook  himself  to  the  office  of  the  paper  in  the 
rue  du  Quatre  Septembre. 

Beaufort  had  not  come  yet,  and,  pending  his 
chief's  arrival,  he  occupied  himself  by  examining 
a  copy.  The  tone  of  the  notes  struck  him  as 
decidedly  poor,  and  a  lengthy  interview  with  one 
of  the  prominent  French  actresses  abounded  in 
all  the  well-worn  cliches  of  the  amateur.  The 
"daintv  and  artistic"  room  into  which  the  inter- 
viewer  was  ushered,  the  lady's  "mock"  despair, 
which  gave  place  to  "graceful"  resignation  and 
"fragrant"  cigarettes,  made  him  sick.  Beaufort 
was  very  cordial  when  he  entered,  though,  and 
it  was  vastly  reassuring  to  discover  how  lightly 
he  took  things.  The  work,  Mr.  Kent  would  find, 
was  as  easy  as  A,  B,  C.  "Turf  Topics"  was 
contributed  by  a  fellow  called  Jordan,  and,  real- 
ly, Mr.  Kent  would  find  a  few  hours  daily  more 
than  enough  to  prepare  an  issue !  They  went  into 
the  private  room,  where  a  bottle  of  vermouth  and 
a  pile  of  French  and  English  journals,  marked 
and  mutilated,  were  the  most  conspicuous  fea- 
tures of  the  writing-table ;  and  Kent  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  his  Editor  was   an  extremely 


CYNTHIA  169 

pleasant  man,  as  the  vermouth  was  sipped  and 
they  chatted  over  two  excellent  cigars. 

At  first  the  duties  did  not  prove  quite  so  simple 
as  had  been  promised  to  one  who  had  never  had 
anything  to  do  with  producing  a  paper  before, 
and  the  printer  worried  him  a  good  deal.  But 
Beaufort  was  highly  satisfied.  The  novice  was 
swift  to  grasp  details,  and  took  such  an  infinity 
of  pains  in  seasoning  and  amplifying  the  re- 
chauffes, that  really  his  stuff  read  almost  like 
original  matter.  As  he  began  to  feel  his  feet, 
too,  he  put  forth  ideas,  and,  finding  that  the 
other  was  quite  ready  to  listen  to  them,  gained 
confidence,  and  was  not  without  a  mistaken  be- 
lief that  in  so  quickly  mastering  the  mysteries  of 
a  weekly  and  painfully  exiguous  little  print,  of 
which  four-fifths  were  eclectic,  he  had  displayed 
ability  of  a  brilliant  order. 

Primarily  the  labour  that  he  devoted  to  the 
task  was  ludicrously  disproportionate  to  the  re- 
sult, but  by  degrees  he  got  through  it  with  more 
rapidity.  When  a  month  had  passed  since  the 
morning  that  he  first  sat  down  in  the  assistant- 
editorial  chair  of  The  World  and  his  Wife,  he 
discovered  that  he  was  doing  in  an  afternoon 
what  it  had  formerly  taken  two  days  to  accom- 
plish, and  he  marvelled  how  he  could  have  been  so 
stupid.     The  work  had  devolved  upon  him  al- 


170  CYNTHIA 

most  entirely  now,  for  Beaufort,  having  shown 
him  the  way  in  which  he  should  go,  dropped  in 
late,  and  withdrew  early,  and  did  little  but  drink 
vermouth  and  say,  "Yes,  certainly,  capital!" 
while  he  was  there.  It  was  Kent  who  proposed 
the  subject  for  the  week's  interview,  wrote — or 
re-wrote — the  causerie,  and  who  even  secured  the 
majority  of  the  few  advertisements  that  they 
obtained.  Also,  when  the  semi-celebrity  to  be 
interviewed  was  not  a  good-looking  woman,  it 
was  he  who  was  the  interviewer.  When  the  lady 
was  attractive,  Billy  Beaufort  attended  to  that 
department  himself. 

Cynthia  had  found  a  pension  de  famille  in  the 
Madeleine  quarter,  highly  recommended  for  a 
permanency,  and  here  they  had  removed.  They 
had  two  fairly  large  bedrooms,  communicating, 
on  the  fourth  floor,  and  paid  a  hundred  and 
fifty  francs  a  week.  It  did  not  leave  much  over 
from  the  salary  for  their  incidental  expenses, 
after  reckoning  the  nurse's  wages;  but  it  was 
supposed  to  be  very  cheap,  and  madame  Garin 
and  her  vivacious  daughter,  who  skipped  a  good 
deal  for  thirty  years  of  age,  and  was  voluble  in 
bad  English,  begged  them  on  no  account  to  let 
any  of  the  other  boarders  hear  that  they  were 
received  at  such  terms,  for  that  would  certainly 
be  the  commencement  of  madame  Garin  and  her 


CYNTHIA  171 

daughter's  ruin.  Some  of  the  boarders  were 
French  people,  but  the  meals,  with  which  twenty- 
five  persons  down  the  long  table  appeared  to  be 
fairly  content,  were  very  bad.  They  would  have 
been  thought  bad  even  in  a  boarding-house  in 
Bloomsbury.  The  twenty-five  persons  were 
waited  on  by  a  leisurely  and  abstracted  Italian, 
and  the  intervals  between  the  meagre  courses 
were  of  such  duration  that  Kent  swore  that  he 
had  generally  forgotten  what  the  soup  had  been 
called  by  the  time  that  the  cold  entree  reached 
him. 

Yet  they  were  not  uncomfortable.  Their  room 
was  cosy  in  the  lamplight  when  the  winter  had 
set  in  and  Etienne  had  made  a  fire,  and  the  cur- 
tains of  the  windows  were  drawn  to  hide  the  view 
of  snowy  roofs ;  and  though  the  dinner  often  left 
them  hungry,  they  could  go  out  and  have  choco- 
late and  cakes.  And  even  as  a  foreign  Press- 
man, Kent  got  some  tickets  for  theatres  and  con- 
certs. It  was  livelier  than  Leamington  Road,  to 
say  the  least  of  it — more  lively  for  him  than  for 
Cynthia,  perhaps;  but  an  improvement  for  her 
as  well,  since  one  or  two  of  the  women  were  com- 
panionable. She  took  walks  with  them  while  he 
was  at  the  office,  and  practised  her  French  on 
them  in  the  chilly  salon. 

One  afternoon  when  he  was  sitting  at  the  office 


172  CYNTHIA 

table  and  Beaufort  had  gone,  the  clerk  came  in 
to  him  with  a  card  that  bore  the  name  of  "Mrs. 
Deane-Pitt."  She  was  staying  in  Paris,  and  the 
Editor  had  accepted  his  suggestion  that  it  might 
be  a  good  idea  to  interview  a  novelist  for  a 
change.  Kent  had  sent  the  proofs  to  her  the  day 
before,  but  he  had  never  seen  her.  He  told  the 
clerk  with  some  satisfaction  to  show  her  in,  and 
he  wished  he  had  put  on  his  other  j  acket,  for  the 
author  of  Two  and  a  Passion  was  a  woman  to 
meet. 

He  felt  shabbier  still  when  she  entered;  she 
looked  to  him  like  an'  animated  fashion-plate 
reduced  to  human  height.  From  the  hues  of  her 
hat  to  the  swirl  of  her  skirt,  it  was  evident  that 
Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  made  money  and  knew  where 
to  spend  it.  An  osprey  in  the  hat  was  the  only 
touch  of  vulgarity.  Everybody  would  not  have 
termed  her  "pretty";  but  her  eyes  and  teeth 
were  good,  and  both  flashed  when  she  talked. 
Her  age  might  have  been  anything  from  thirty 
to  thirty-five. 

"I  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Beaufort,"  she  said,  in  a 
clear,  crisp  voice;  "but  I  hear  he's  out." 

"Yes;  he  is  out,"  said  Kent.  "Is  it  anything 
I  can  do?" 

"Well,  I  don't  like  that  interview.  I  dare 
say  it  was  my  own  fault,  but  I  object  to  suffering 


CYNTHIA  173 

for  my  own  faults — one  has  to  suffer  for  so  many 
other  people's  in  this  world.  It's  all  about  Two 
and  a  Passion.  I  wrote  Two  and  a  Passion  seven 
years  ago — and  I  didn't  get  a  royalty  on  it, 
either!  Why  not  talk  about  the  books  I've  done 
since,  and  say  more  about  the  one  that's  just  out? 
You  say,  'Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  confessed  to  having 
recently  published  another  novel,'  and  then  you 
drop  it  as  if  it  were  a  failure.  And  'confessed' — 
why  'confessed'?  That's  the  tone  I  don't  like 
in  the  thing.  You  write  about  me  as  if  I  were 
an  amateur." 

He  felt  that  Beaufort  would  not  be  sorry  to 
have  missed  her. 

"May  I  see  the  proofs  again?"  he  asked. 

She  gave  them  to  him,  and  settled  herself  in 
her  chair.  He  looked  at  them  pen  in  hand,  and 
she  looked  at  him. 

"It  can  easily  be  put  right,  can't  it,  Mr. " 

"'Kent.'  Easily— oh  yes!  Will  you  tell  me 
something  about  your  new  book?  I'm  ashamed 
to  say  I  haven't  read  it  yet." 

"Don't  apologise.  It's  called  Thy  Neighbour  s 
Husband" 

"Does  she  bolt  with  him,  or  do  you  end  it 
virtuously?" 

"Virtuously,  monsieur,"  she  said,  smiling. 
"You  travel  fast!" 


174  CYNTHIA 

"And — please  go  on!  Are  there  cakes  and 
ale,  or  does  she  tend  the  sick  and  visit  the  poor?" 

"You  appal  me!"  said  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt. 
"Whatever  my  faults,  I  am  modern;  I  end  with 
a  question-point." 

"Not  questioning  the  lady's " 

"Oh,  her  happiness,  of  course!" 
;  'This  brilliant  and  absorbing  study,  which  is 
already  giving  rise  to  considerable  discussion,' 
would  be  the  kind  of  thing?" 

"Quite,"  she  said.  "I'm  awfully  sorry  to  give 
you  so  much  trouble." 

"The  'trouble'  's  a  pleasure.  You  don't  want 
your  'favourite  dog'  mentioned,  do  you?  Fa- 
vourite dogs  are  rather  at  a  discount.    Er " 

"Three,"  she  said.    "Yes ;  a  boy  and  two  girls." 

"Does  the  boy — 'in  a  picturesque  suit' — come 
into  the  room,  and  lead  up  to  'evident  maternal 
pride'?" 

"He's  a  dear  little  fellow!"  she  answered.  "But 
do  you  think  'evident  maternal  pride'  would  be 
quite  in  the  key?  No;  I'd  stick  to  me  and  the 
work!  Besides,  domesticity  is  tedious  to  read 
about;  the  dullest  topic  in  the  world  is  other 
people's  children." 

Kent  laughed. 

"I'll  explain  to  Mr.  Beaufort,"  he  declared; 
"you  shall  have  a  revise  sent  on  to-morrow.    I'm 


CYNTHIA  175 

sure  you'll  find  it  all  right  when  he  understands 
the  style  of  thing  you  want." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  dryly.  "I  assure  you 
I  have  no  misgivings,  Mr.  Kent.  'Kent'!  I've 
never  had  any  correspondence  with  you,  have  I? 
I  The  name's  familiar  to  me,  somehow." 

"An  alias  is  'The  garden  of  England,'  "  he 
said. 

"No;  you  haven't  written  anything,  have  you?" 

"Two  novels.  One  is  published,  and  the  post 
is  wearing  out  the  other." 

"I  remembe'r,"  she  cried,  uttering  the  title 
triumphantly;  "I  read  it.  What  grand  reviews 
you  had!  Of  course,  I  know  now.  I  liked  your 
book  extremely,  Mr.  Kent.  'Humphrey  Kent,' 
isn't  it?" 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "Yes,  'Humphrey 
Kent.'  " 

"And  you  go  in  for  journalism,  too,  eh?" 

"Oh,  this  is  a  departure.  I  was  never  on  a 
paper  till  lately." 

"Really!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  aren't  giving 
fiction  up?" 

"I'm  pot-boiling,  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt.  Do  you 
think  it  very  inartistic  of  me?" 

"Don't!"  she  said.  "Inartistic!  I  hate  that 
cant.  There  are  papers  that  are  always  calling 
me  inartistic.    One's  got  to  live.     Oh,  I  admire 


176  CYNTHIA 

the  people  who  can  put  up  with  West  Kensing- 
ton and  take  three  years  to  write  a  novel,  but 
their  altitude  is  beyond  me.  I  write  to  sell,  moi 
— though  you  needn't  put  that  in  the  interview. 
But  I  shouldn't  have  thought  you'd  have  any 
trouble  in  placing  your  books — you  oughtn't  to 
to-day!  I  expect  you've  been  too  'literary' — 
you'll  grow  out  of  it." 

"You  don't  believe  in " 

"I'm  a  practical  woman.  The  public  read  to  be 
amused,  and  the  publishers  want  what  the  public 
will  read,  good,  bad,  or  rotten;  that's  my  view. 
You  mustn't  make  me  say  these  things,  though," 
she  broke  off,  laughing,  and  getting  up;  "it's 
most  indiscreet — to  a  Pressman.  ...  I  shall  send 
you  a  copy  of  Thy  Neighbour  s  Husband — to 
a  colleague.  Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Kent.  I'll 
leave  you  to  go  on  with  your  work  now.  Pray 
don't  look  so  relieved." 

"I  should  value  the  copy  ever  so  much,"  he 
said.  "It  was  anything  but  relief — I  was  strug- 
gling to  conceal  despair." 

She  put  out  her  hand,  and  a  faint  perfume 
clung  to  his  own  after  the  door  had  closed. 
Though  her  standpoint  was  not  his  own,  her  per- 
sonality had  impressed  him,  and,  as  he  watched 
her  from  the  window  re-entering  her  cab,  Kent 
was  sorry  that  she  hadn't  remained  longer. 


CYNTHIA  177 

He  hoped  she  would  not  forget  her  promise  to 
send  her  novel  to  him,  and  when  it  reached  him, 
a  few  days  later,  he  opened  it  with  considerable 
eagerness.  The  style  disappointed  him  some- 
what, and  the  story  seemed  to  him  unworthy  of 
the  pen  that  had  written  Two  and  a  Passion. 
But  he  replied,  as  he  was  bound  to  do,  with  a 
letter  of  grateful  appreciation,  and  endeavoured, 
moreover,  to  persuade  himself  that  he  liked  it 
better  than  he  did.  The  lady,  on  her  side,  wrote 
a  cordial  little  note,  thanking  him  for  the 
amended  proof-sheets — "I  had  no  idea  that  I  was 
so  clever  or  so  charming."  She  said  she  should  be 
pleased  to  see  him  if  he  could  ever  spare  the  time 
to  look  in — she  could  give  him  a  cup  of  "real 
English  tea";  and  she  was  "Very  truly  his — 
Eva  Deane-Pitt." 


CHAPTER   XV 

She  was  living  in  the  avenue  Wagram — she 
had  taken  a  small  furnished  flat  there  for  a  few 
months — and  when  he  saw  her  on  the  Boulevard, 
about  a  week  afterwards,  Kent  was  puzzled  to 
discover  the  reason  that  he  had  not  availed  him- 
self of  her  invitation.  He  called  a  day  or  two 
later,  and  found  her  cynical  but  stimulating.  In 
recalling  the  visit,  it  appeared  to  him  that  she  was 
more  entertaining  in  conversation  than  in  print, 
which  suggested  that  her  good  things  were  not  so 
good  as  they  sounded,  but  while  she  talked  he  was 
amused.  He  left  the  flat  with  the  consciousness 
of  having  spent  a  very  agreeable  half-hour,  and 
was  sorry  that  her  "day,"  which  she  had  men- 
tioned to  him,  was  a  fortnight  ahead.  She 
seemed  to  know  many  persons  in  Paris  whom  he 
would  be  glad  to  meet,  and  apart  from  the  host- 
ess, with  whom  he  had  drunk  "English  tea"  and 
smoked  Egyptian  cigarettes,  the  entree  to  the 
little  yellow  drawing-room  promised  to  be  en- 
joyable. That  she  was  a  widow  he  had  taken  for 
granted  from  the  first,  and  his  assumption  had 

178 


CYNTHIA  179 

proved  to  be  correct.  She  was  a  woman  who 
struck  one  as  born  to  be  a  widow ;  it  was  difficult 
to  conceive  her  either  with  a  husband  or  living 
in  her  parents'  home.  As  to  her  children,  she 
spoke  of  them  frequently,  and  saw  them  seldom. 
Kent  decided  that  she  was  too  fashionable  and 
a  trifle  hard,  but  this  did  not  detract  from  the 
pleasure  that  the  visits  afforded  him;  perhaps 
xiis  perception  of  her  character  was  indeed  re- 
sponsible for  much  of  the  pleasure,  for  it  ren- 
dered it  more  complimentary  still  that  she  was 
nice  to  him. 

She  was  surprised  to  learn  that  he  was  mar- 
ried, and  declared  that  she  looked  forward  to 
knowing  his  wife.  She  did  not,  however,  take  any 
steps  to  gratify  the  desire,  and  Kent  was  not  re- 
gretful.    He  felt  that  few  things  more  produc- 
tive of  boredom  for  two  could  be  devised  than  a 
tete-a-tete  between  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  and  Cyn- 
thia ;  and,  though  he  was  reluctant  to  acknowl- 
li  edge  it  to  himself,  he  had  a  feeling  also  that,  if  it 
occurred,  the  lady  would  be  a  little  contemptu- 
ous of  him  afterwards.    He  knew  her  opinion  of 
| young  men's  marriages  in  the  majority  of  cases, 
k  and  was  uncomfortably  conscious  that  she  would 
J  not  pronounce  his  own  to  be  one  of  the  excep- 
tions. 

Mrs.  Walford's  letters  to  her  daughter  had 


180  CYNTHIA 

hitherto  been  in  her  most  enthusiastic  vein.  Mr. 
McCullough  had  given  the  disappointed  bass  a 
berth  in  Berlin,  and  in  her  letters  this  was  al- 
luded to  as  a  "position,"  upon  which  she  showered 
her  favourite  adjectives  of  "jolly"  and  "extra- 
ordinary" and  "immense."  Caesar  was  "Mc- 
Cullough's  right  hand,"  the  "best  houses  in 
Berlin"  were  open  to  him,  and  his  prospects,  so- 
cial and  financial,  were  dazzling.  Of  late,  how- 
ever, he  had  been  dwelt  on  less,  and  one  morning 
there  came  a  letter  that  contained  a  confession 
of  personal  anxiety.  The  recent  heavy  drop  in 
American  stocks,  and  the  failure  of  two  or  three 
brokers,  had  seriously  affected  the  jobber.  They 
thought  of  trying  to  let  The  Hawthorns,  which 
was  much  too  large  for  them  now,  and  moving 
out  of  the  neighbourhood.  Cssar  remained  Mc- 
Cullough's  "right  hand,"  but  briefly;  and  it  was 
evident  that  the  writer  was  in  great  distress. 

Cynthia  was  terribly  grieved  and  startled.  She 
dashed  off  eight  pages  of  love  and  inquiries  by 
the  evening  mail,  and  when  the  news  was  con- 
firmed, with  more  particulars,  she  felt  that  she 
could  do  no  less  than  run  over  to  utter  her  sym- 
pathy in  person. 

Kent  agreed  that  it  was  perhaps  advisable, 
and  raised  the  money  that  was  necessary  cheer- 
fully enough  by  pawning  his  watch  and  chain. 


CYNTHIA  181 

Only  when  she  sent  him  a  rather  lengthy  tele- 
gram from  Streatham,  detailing  her  mother's 
frame  of  mind,  did  he  feel  that  she  was  exagger- 
ating his  share  in  her  solicitude. 

The  chilly  salon,  where  the  ladies  played  for- 
feits after  dinner,  or  where  the  vivacious  daugh- 
ter thumped  the  piano,  was  not  attractive  during 
[Cynthia's  absence.  Neither  was  it  lively  to  smoke 
alone  in  his  room,  or  to  go  to  a  theatre  or  a  music- 
•hall  by  himself;  and  when,  in  calling  on  Mrs. 
*Deane-Pitt,  he  mentioned  his  loneliness  and  she 
'proposed  that  he  should  take  her  to  the  Varietes, 
he  accepted  the  suggestion  with  alacrity. 

As  he  obtained  the  tickets  for  nothing,  his  only 
expense  was  cabs,  and  the  liqueurs  between  the 
acts;  and  it  was  so  enjoyable,  laughing  with  her 
^on  the  lounge  of  the  cafe,  that  the  recollection 
'of  their  being  paid  for  out  of  the  balance  of  his 
(loan  from  the  mont-de-piete  was  banished.  Mrs. 
Deane-Pitt  made  some  more  of  her  happy  re- 
marks while  they  sipped  the  chartreuse,  and  her 

teeth  and  eyes  flashed  superbly.  The  piece  was  a 
[great  success,  but  Kent  thought  the  entr'actes 
[were  even  gayer.  And  when  the  curtain  had 
ifallen  and  they  reached  the  avenue  Wagram,  she 
would  not  hear  of  his  leaving  her  before  going 

n  and  having  some  supper. 
His  liqueurs  looked  very  paltry  to  him  con- 


182  CYNTHIA 

trasted  with  the  table  that  exhibited  mayon- 
naise and  champagne,  and  his  exhilaration  was 
momentarily  damped  by  envy.  Fiction  meant  a 
good  deal  when  one  was  lucky;  how  jolly  to  be 
able  to  live  as  this  woman  did!  Her  maid  took 
away  her  cloak  and  hat,  and  he  opened  the  bottle. 
She  drew  off  her  long  gloves,  and  patted  her 
hair  before  the  mirror  with  fingers  on  which  some 
rings  shone. 

"Let's  sit  down!    Am  I  all  right?" 

He  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look  so 
charming  or  so  young. 

"You  have  a  colour,"  he  said. 

"A  proof  it's  natural ;  when  we  went  out  I  was 
as  pale  as  a  ghost!  I  work  too  hard,  I  do — 
what  are  you  smiling  at? — I  work  horribly  hard. 
Life's  so  dear — yes,  'expensive' — don't  say  it,  it 
would  be  unworthy  of  you.  And  I  can't  do  a 
fifth  part  of  what's  offered  me,  with  all  my  fag." 

"Am  I  supposed  to  sympathise  with  you  for 
that?" 

"Certainly  you  should  sympathise;  what  dc 
you  suppose  I  tell  you  for — to  be  felicitated  ?  Do 
you  think  it's  agreeable  to  have  to  refuse  work 
when  one  needs  the  money  it  would  bring  ins 
The  trials  of  Tantalus  were  a  joke  to  it.  I  had 
to  let  a  twenty-thousand-word  story  for  The 
Metropolis  slide  only  the  other  day,  and  I  coulc 


CYNTHIA  188 

place  half  a  dozen  shorter  stories  every  week  if 
I'd  the  time  to  write  them." 

"You  do  write  a  great  many,"  said  Kent,  "and 
you  seem  fairly  comfortable." 

"  'Wise  judges  are  we  of  each  other!'  You 
ought  to  see  my  bills ;  that  music-stand  over  there 
is  full  of  them!  That's  the  place  I  always  keep 
them  in — I'm  naturally  tidy,  it's  one  of  my  vir- 
tues. I  had  to  turn  out  Chopin's  Mazurkas  yes- 
terday to  make  room  for  some  more.  I  only 
came  to  Paris  because  people  don't  write  you  so 
many  abusive  letters  when  they  have  to  pay  two- 
pence-halfpenny postage.  Oh,  I'm  comfortable 
enough  in  a  fashion,  but  I've  my  worries  like  my 
neighbours.  I  suppose  I'm  extravagant,  but  I 
,  can't  help  it.  Besides,  I'm  not!  Do  you  think 
I'm  extravagant?" 

He  looked  at  her,  and  nodded,  smiling. 

"No,"  she  said,  "not  really?    Why? 

"Heavens!  you  haven't  the  illusion  that  you're 
economical  ?  I  believe  you  spend  a  small  fortune 
I  on  cabs  alone." 

"I  don't  spend  a  solitary  franc  on  one  when 
I'm  not  alone." 

"You  never  walk,  so  far  as  I  can  ascer- 
tain  " 

"No;  not  so  far  as  that,  but  I  toddle  a  bit." 

"Your  champagne  is  above  criticism,  and  you 


184  CYNTHIA 

dress  like — like  an  angel.    The  simile  is  bad " 

"And  improper.  Go  on;  what  other  faults 
have  I?  I  like  to  know  my  friends' opinion  of  me." 

"  'If  to  her  share  some  human  errors  fall '  " 

he  murmured. 

"Dont  look,  then!  Shall  I  hide  it  behind  my 
table-napkin  ?  That's  sheer  cowardice,  Fill  your 
glass,  and  mine,  please.  Go  on;  tell  me  how  I 
strike  you  frankly!  I  know;  you  think  I  don't 
approach  literature  reverently  enough  and  ought 
to  devote  twelve  months  to  a  book,  and  let  my 
poor  little  children  go  barefoot  in  the  meanwhile? 
Well,  I  did  give  twelve  months  to  a  book  once; 
but  I  had  a  husband  when  I  wrote  Two  and  a 
Passion,  and  he  provided  the  shoes.  Now,  if  I 
didn't  work  as  I  do,  I  should  have  to  live  at  Bat- 
tersea,  and  buy  my  clothes  at  Brixton,  and  take 
my  holidays  at  Southend.  You  wouldn't  calmly 
condemn  me  to  Southend?  My  income,  apart 
from  what  I  make,  barely  pays  my  rent." 

"Your  rent  is  somewhat  heavy,"  suggested 
Kent,  "with  two  flats  going  at  once." 

"Wretch!  do  you  lecture  me  because  I  couldn't 
find  a  tenant  for  the  Victoria  Street  place?  He 
blames  me  for  my  misfortunes!" 

She  caught  the  long  gloves  up,  and  swirled 
them  round  on  his  cheek.  Like  the  others,  they 
were  perfumed ;  but  now  their  scent  was  in  his  I  ss 


CYNTHIA  185 

face.  They  looked  in  each  other's  eyes  an  instant, 
smiling  across  the  corner  of  the  table.  Then,  as 
the  smile  died  away,  they  remained  looking  in 
each  other's  eyes  attentively.  He  drew  the  gloves 
from  her  hold,  and  played  with  them.  Her  hand 
lay  upturned  to  take  them  back,  and  in  restoring 
them  his  own  rested  on  it.  She  averted  her  gaze, 
but  her  palm  did  not  slip  away  so  quickly  as  it 
might  have  done. 

"You  know  you  may  smoke,"  she  said,  rising 
and  going  over  to  the  fire.   "I'll  have  one,  too." 

"Isn't  it  too  late?"  he  asked,  joining  her. 

His  voice  was  not  quite  steady,  and  now  he 
didn't  look  at  her  as  he  spoke. 

"You  can  have  one  cigarette,"  she  said,  sink- 
ing into  an  armchair,  and  crossing  her  feet  on  the 
fender.  "How's  the  paper  going?  Eclipsing 
Le  Petit  Journal?" 

"Of  course,"  he  said.  "Did  you  ever  know 
anybody's  paper  that  wasn't?" 

"You  count  Paris  your  home,  I  suppose?  You 
mean  to  stop  here  permanently?  I  go  back  in 
March;  the  people  are  returning  here  then.  I 
loathe  London  after  Paris,  but  I  shall  have  es- 
caped most  of  the  winter  there,  that's  one  thing. 
Where  did  you  live  in  town?" 

"My  neighbourhood  was  Batter  sea,  that  is  to 
say,  it  was  suburban  wilds.    We  had  a  villa  at 


186  CYNTHIA 

Streatham — have  it  now,  in  fact,"  he  added,  re- 
membering with  dismay  that  there  was  a  quar- 
ter's rent  due.  "]\To,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  condole 
with  you,  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt." 

"  'Pride  sleeps  in  a  gilded  crown,  contentment 
in  a  cotton  night-cap,'  "  she  said.  "An  address  is 
only  skin-deep,  after  all;  besides,  Streatham  is 
pretty." 

"Pretty  well.  And  it  looks  prettier  out  of  a 
big  house." 

"Get  money,  my  friend,"  she  said  languidly; 
"you  are  young  enough,  and  I  think  you're  clever 
enough.  When  all  things  were  made,  nothing 
was  made  better.  And  it's  really  very  easy;  as 
soon  as  you  are  popular,  the  editors  will  take 
anything." 

"  'First  catch  your  hare/  "  he  observed.  "I'm 
not  popular." 

The  clock  on  the  mantelshelf  struck  one,  and 
he  threw  away  his  cigarette-end  and  got  up. 

"Good-night,  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt." 

"Good-night,"  she  said. 

Her  touch  lingered  again,  and  her  personality 
dominated  him  as  he  walked  back  to  the  pension 
de  famille  through  the  silent  streets.  He  was 
angry  with  himself  to  perceive  that  it  was  so. 
What  the  devil  had  he  been  about  in  that  business 
with  the  gloves  over  the  table?    She  had  let  him 


CYNTHIA  187 

do  it,  too!  Did  she  like  him.  He  wouldn't  go 
to  see  her  any  more !  Well,  that  was  absurd,  but 
he  would  not  go  so  frequently  as  he  had.  And 
he  must  keep  a  rein  on  himself.  Nothing  could 
come  of  it,  he  was  convinced,  even  if  he  wished; 
and  he  did  not  wish.  It  would  be  too  beastly  to 
deceive  a  girl  like  Cynthia  .  .  .  and  their  baby 
only  a  year  old !  He  decided,  as  he  mounted  the 
stairs,  to  tell  Cynthia  when  she  came  back  that 
he  had  been  to  the  Varietes  with  Mrs.  Deane- 
Pitt.  It  would  not  disturb  her  to  hear  that,  and, 
though  it  was  juggling  with  his  conscience,  he 
would  feel  cleaner  afterwards.  There  was  a 
letter  from  her  waiting  for  him  on  the  bedroom 
table,  and  he  washed  his  hands  before  he  opened 
it. 

Cynthia  wrote  to  say  that  she  should  be  home 
the  next  evening  but  one,  and  that  her  parents 
had  been  rejoiced  to  see  her.  On  the  whole, 
things  did  not  seem  to  be  so  desperate  as  she  had 
feared;  but  it  was  quite  determined  that  The 
Hawthorns  should  be  let,  for,  fortunately,  there 
was  a  Peruvian  family  who  were  prepared  to  take 
it  just  as  it  stood,  and  mamma  had  already  been 
to  view  a  house  at  Strawberry  Hill  which  was 
quite  nice,  and  far  cheaper.  Whether  Miss  Wix 
would  remove  with  them  was  doubtful. 

"Mamma's  temper  is  naturally  not  of  the  best 


188  CYNTHIA 

just  now,  and  I  gather  that  the  dissensions  have 
been  rather  bad.  Papa  talks  of  allowing  Aunt 
Emily  a  pound  a  week  to  live  by  herself,  and 
really  she  seems  to  prefer  it." 

She  added,  underlined,  that  Caesar  was  still 
"the  right  hand  of  McCullough."  She  had  learnt 
to  smile  a  little  at  Caesar,  and  Kent  winced  as  he 
came  to  that  allusion  to  a  mutual  joke.  And 
then  there  followed  a  dozen  affectionate  injunc- 
tions :  he  was  not  to  be  dull,  "poor  boy  who  had 
no  watch  and  chain!"  but  to  go  somewhere  every 
night;  he  was  to  hug  baby  for  her,  and  to  give 
and  keep  a  score  of  kisses.  She  was  "Always 
his  loving  wife."  He  read  it  under  the  paraffin 
lamp  with  his  overcoat  on,  and  wished  that  ft 
hadn't  arrived  till  the  morning. 

Mrs.  Deane-Pitt's  inquiry  how  The  World  and 
his  Wife  was  going  had  had  more  significance 
than  Kent's  careless  reply.  The  band  of  Paris 
Correspondents  in  the  vicinity  of  the  boulevard 
Magenta  and  elsewhere  were  already  beginning 
to  talk  about  Billy  Beaufort,  for,  not  only  was 
he  neglecting  the  first  chance  of  a  competence 
that  had  fallen  his  way  for  years — he  was  squan- 
dering the  whole  of  a  very  handsome  salary,  and 
getting  into  difficulties,  besides.  The  amount  of 
energy  which   this  man,   when  in  his   deepest 


CYNTHIA  189 

waters,  expended  upon  a  search  for  opportunities 
was  equalled  only  by  the  abysmal  folly  by  which 
he  ruined  all  that  he  obtained.  He  was  one  of 
the  fools  who  devote  their  lives  to  disproving  the 
adage  that  experience  teaches  them.  The  circu- 
lation of  the  paper  was  purely  nominal,  and  the 
Baronet  had  constantly  to  be  applied  to  for  fur- 
ther funds;  indeed,  the  only  work  in  connection 
with  the  journal  which  Billy  did  now  was  to  write 
euphemistic  reports  to  the  proprietor.  The 
money  did  not  supply  the  journal's  deficiencies 
alone.  Card  debts  had  to  be  settled  somehow; 
and  an  ephemeral  attachment  to  a  girl  who  tied 
herself  in  knots  at  the  Nouveau  Cirque  was  re- 
sponsible for  some  embarrassment. 

Hitherto,  however,  Beaufort  had  always 
spared  the  hurdred  and  seventy-five  francs  at  the 
end  of  the  we. I:  to  his  assistant-editor.  But  on 
the  Saturday  after  Cynthia's  return  he  asked  him 
casually  if  he  would  mind  waiting  for  it  a  few 
days. 

"Sorry  if  it  puts  you  out  at  all,"  he  said.  "I 
can't  help  myself.  You  shall  have  it  for  certain 
Wednesday  or  Thursday.  I  suppose  you  can 
finance  matters  in  the  meanwhile,  eh?" 

Kent  could  do  no  less  than  answer  that  he 
would    try.      On    Monday    morning,   though, 


190  CYNTHIA 

madame  Garin's  bill  would  come  up  with  the 
first  breakfast,  and  he  saw  that  he  would  be 
compelled  either  to  make  an  excuse  to  her,  or 
to  pretend  to  forget  it  till  he  could  pay. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Their  bills  had  been  paid  with  such  exceeding 
regularity  up  to  the  present  that  he  decided  to 
take  the  bolder  course,  distasteful  as  it  was.  He 
had  been  obliged  to  ask  landladies  to  wait  longer 
in  his  time,  but  it  was  one  thing  to  be  "disap- 
pointed" as  a  bachelor,  and  quite  another  when 
one  had  a  wife,  and  baby,  and  nurse  in  the  house. 
Madame  Garin's  countenance,  moreover,  was  of 
a  rather  forbidding  type,  and  did  not  suggest  a 
yielding  disposition  in  money  matters.  He  was 
agreeably  surprised  to  hear  her  say,  after  a 
scarcely  perceptible  pause,  that  it  was  of  no  con- 
sequence when  he  spoke  to  her  in  passing  her 
little  office  in  the  hall  on  Monday  morning. 
Cynthia's  relief  was  immense ;  it  had  been  a  seri- 
ous crisis  to  her,  her  earliest  experience  of  having 
to  ask  for  credit;  and,  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  he 
had  not  promised  to  pay  before  Thursday  Both 
trusted  that  the  salary  would  be  forthcoming 
on  Wednesday,  though,  for  if  the  nurse  wanted 
anything  bought  in  the  meanwhile  they  would 
be  obliged  to  temporise  with  her,  and  that  would 
have  its  awkwardness. 

191 


192  CYNTHIA 

Beaufort  did  not  refer  to  the  subject  on 
Wednesday,  and  Kent  went  home  with  sixty-five 
centimes  in  his  pocket.  He  got  in  late,  and  Cyn- 
thia was  already  at  dinner.  She  glanced  at  him 
inquiringly  as  he  took  his  seat,  and  he  shook  his 
head. 

"Not  yet,"  he  murmured. 

She  disguised  her  feelings  and  continued  to 
talk  chiffons  with  the  woman  opposite ;  but  when 
they  mounted  to  their  room  and  the  proprietress 
looked  out  of  the  bureau  at  them  with  a  greet- 
ing, she  felt  a  shade  uncomfortable,  and  hastened 
her  steps. 

"I  hate  that  bureau,"  she  said  as  soon  as  they 
had  reached  the  haven  of  the  first  landing.  "The 
Garins  seem  to  live  in  it,  and  you  can't  get  by 
without  their  seeing  you!  Well,  he  didn't  give 
it  to  you,  eh?" 

"No;  it'll  be  all  right  to-morrow,  though.  It's 
lucky  I  said  'Thursday'  instead  of  to-day.  Has 
Nurse  been  to  you  for  anything?" 

"Thank  goodness,  she  hasn't!  But  Baby  is 
bound  to  be  out  of  something  directly.  You  do 
think  we  are  sure  of  it  to-morrow,  Humphrey, 
'don't  you?" 

He  said  there  was  no  doubt  about  it,  and  they 
drew  their  chairs  to  the  hearth.  The  night  was 
cold,  and  presently  he  went  out  to  a  grocer's 


CYNTHIA  193 

and  spent  sixty  centimes  on  a  bottle  of  the  kind 
of  red  wine  that  the  restaurants  threw  in  with 
the  cheapest  meal,  smuggling  it  upstairs  under 
his  overcoat.  In  madame  Garin's  wine-list  it 
figured  as  "medoc"  at  two  francs,  and  she  would 
not  have  been  pleased  with  him  for  getting  it  at  a 
shop.  They  made  it  hot  over  their  fire  in  one  of 
the  infant's  saucepans ;  and,  sweetened  with  sugar 
from  the  nursery  cupboard,  they  found  it  com- 
forting. Though  their  capital  was  now  a  sou, 
they  were  not  unhappy,  in  the  prospect  of  a 
hundred  and  seventy-five  francs  in  the  course  of 
twenty-four  hours,  and  once  Cynthia  laughed  so 
gaily  that  the  nurse  came  in  and  intimated  that 
"the  rooms  hopening  into  one  another  made  the 
noise  very  disturbing  to  Baby." 

Kent  went  to  the  office  next  day  without  a 
cigarette,  for  he  had  smoked  his  last,  and  he 
I  awaited  his  chief's  arrival  with  considerable  im- 
patience. The  Editor  had  not  been  in  when  he 
returned  to  luncheon,  but  in  reply  to  Cynthia's 
eager  question  he  assured  her  that  he  was  certain 
to  have  the  money  in  his  pocket  when  he  saw  her 
again  in  the  evening.  He  wanted  a  cigarette  by 
this  time  very  badly  indeed,  and  when  the  office 
clock  struck  three,  he  left  his  desk,  and  stood 
pulling  his  moustache  at  the  window  moodily. 
He  began  to  fear  that  it  was  going  to  be  one  of 


194  CYNTHIA 

the  days  when  Billy  Beaufort  did  not  appear  in 
the  rue  du  Quatre  Septembre  at  all. 

His  misgiving  proved  to  be  well  founded,  and 
dinner  that  night  was  agreeable  neither  to  him 
nor  the  girl.  She  had  been  reluctant  to  go  down 
to  it,  on  hearing  that  madame  Garin  could  not 
be  paid,  and,  though  he  persuaded  her  to  go 
down,  she  sped  past  the  bureau  with  averted  eyes. 
It  was  useless  to  go  in  search  of  Beaufort;  the 
only  thing  of  which  one  could  be  positive  with 
regard  to  his  movements  at  this  hour  was  that 
he  would  not  be  at  his  hotel ;  but  Kent  promised 
her  to  see  him  before  commencing  work  in  the 
morning,  and  said  that  the  amount  necessary 
should  be  sent  round  to  her  at  once. 

Beaufort  was  staying  at  the  Grand,  and  he  was 
still  in  his  room  when  Kent  called  there.  He  was 
found  in  bed,  reading  his  letters.  A  suit  of  dress- 
clothes  trailed  disconsolately  across  a  chair,  and 
by  the  window  a  fur-coat  and  a  hat-box  had 
rolled  on  to  the  floor.  He  had  not  drunk  his 
chocolate,  but  a  tumbler  of  soda-water  and  some- 
thing, and  a  syphon,  stood  on  the  table  beside 
him,  surrounded  by  his  watch  and  chain,  some 
scattered  cigarettes,  and  the  bulk  of  his  corre- 
spondence.   He  looked  but  half  awake  and  cross. 

"What's   the   matter?"    he   murmured.     "Sit 


CYNTHIA  195 

down.  There's  a  seat  there,  if  you  move  those 
things.   Will  you  have  anything  to  drink?" 

"I  won't  have  a  drink,  but  I'll  take  one  of  those 
cigarettes,  if  I  may,"  said  Kent,  sticking  it  in  his 
mouth  and  inhaling  gratefully.  "I'm  sorry  to  dun 
you,  but  you  told  me  I  could  have  the  money 
'Wednesday  or  Thursday,'  and  I'm  pressed  for 
it.  I  wish  you  wTould  let  me  have  it  now ;  I  want 
to  send  it  up  to  my  pension  before  going  on  to 
the  shop." 

Beaufort  put  out  his  tongue  and  drank  some 
more  of  the  contents  of  the  tumbler  thirstily. 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  he  said,  yawning;  "don't 
you  bother  about  that!" 

"But  the  point  is,  that  I  want  it  now,"  said 
Kent.  "I  dare  say  it  would  be  'all  right,'  but  I'm 
in  need  of  it  this  morning.  My  bill  came  up  on 
Monday,  and  I  put  the  woman  off  till  yesterday 
— I  can't  put  her  off  any  more." 

"What?  Is  this  the  first  week  you  owe  her? 
My  boy,  a  week !  I  haven't  paid  my  bill  here  for 
eleven  weeks.    Let  her  wait." 

"You  haven't  a  wife,"  said  Kent.  ct I  have.  It's 
damned  unpleasant  for  a  girl,  I  can  tell  you!" 

"How  much  does  the  old  harpy  want?"  in- 
quired the  Editor,  with  resentment. 

"A  hundred  and  sixty,  more  or  less,  with  ex- 


196  CYNTHIA 

tras.  I  have  the  interesting  document  with  me, 
if  you'd  like  to  see  it." 

Billy  gaped  again. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "we'll  engineer  it.  You 
— you  tell  your  wife  not  to  worry  herself;  and 
don't  trouble  any  more.     I'll  see  you  through." 

He  settled  his  head  on  the  pillow,  and  appeared 
to  be  under  the  impression  that  the  difficulty  was 
disposed  of. 

"It's  very  good  of  you,"  answered  Kent,  as 
his  tone  seemed  to  call  for  gratitude,  "I'm  glad 
to  hear  you  say  so.    But  how  soon  can  I  have  it?" 

"Eh?  Oh,  I  shall  be  able  to  draw  to-morrow. 
You  shall  have  a  hundred  and  sixty  to-morrow. 
I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  on  it.  I'll  work 
it  for  you  somehow.    I  won't  see  you  in  a  hole." 

Kent  stared  at  him.  On  the  morrow  a  second 
week's  salary  would  be  due — and  on  the  next 
day  but  one,  a  second  account  from  madame 
Garin.  He  pointed  the  fact  out  to  Beaufort 
quietly,  but  with  emphasis.  He  said  that,  if 
matters  were  financially  complicated,  it  would  be 
well  for  him  to  understand  the  position,  in  order 
that  he  might  realise  his  outlook,  and,  if  essential, 
make  a  temporary  removal  to  a  quarter  where  he 
could  live  more  cheaply.  He  did  not  want  to 
badger  him,  he  explained,  but  Beaufort's  pro- 
gramme was  not  capable  of  imitation  in  his  own 


CYNTHIA  197 

case,  and,  as  a  family  man,  he  must  cut  his  coat 
according  to  his  cloth. 

"If  you  want  me  to  let  part  of  my  salary 
stand  over  for  the  next  few  weeks,  and  it's  un- 
avoidable, I  suppose  it  is  unavoidable,"  he  said 
finally;  "only,  I  can't  be  left  in  the  dark  about  it. 
Am  I  to  understand  that  you  propose  to  pay  me 
a  hundred  and  sixty  francs  to-morrow,  instead  of 
three  hundred  and  fifty?  Or  shall  I  have  the 
lot?" 

What  he  received  was  a  peaceful  snore,  and  he 
perceived  that  Billy  Beaufort  had  fallen  asleep. 
He  contemplated  him  for  a  minute  desperately, 
and  lit  another  cigarette.  The  thought  of  Cyn- 
thia sitting  at  home  in  the  bedroom,  waiting  in 
suspense  for  a  messenger's  knock  at  the  door, 
nerved  him  to  upset  a  chair,  and  Beaufort  opened 
his  eyes  with  a  grunt. 

"What  can  you  do?"  demanded  Kent,  briefly 
this  time,  lest  slumber  should  overtake  him  again. 
"Can  you  give  me  any  money  before  I  go?" 

"I've  told  you  I'll  do  my  utmost.  You  shall 
have  a  hundred  and  sixty  francs  to-morrow;  I 
can't  give  it  you  now — I  haven't  got  it.  If  I 
had,  you  may  be  sure  you  wouldn't  have  to  ask 
twice  for  it.  I'm  not  a  chap  of  that  sort,  Kent. 
By  George!  I  never  desert  a  pal.  I've  my 
faults,  but  I  never  desert  a  pal.  ...  If  a  louis 


198  CYNTHIA 

on  account  is  any  good,  I  can  let  you  have  that." 
"Well,"  said  Humphrey,  seeing  that  there  was 
no  more  to  be  done,  "I  rely  on  you.     And — 
thanks — I'll  take  the  louis  to  go  on  with." 

He  went  down  and  out  on  to  the  Boulevard, 
and  sent  Cynthia  a  petit  bleu,  saying,  "Got 
something.  Balance  to-morrow,"  and  wondered 
gloomily  whether  madame  Garin  would  continue 
complacent  when  she  discovered  that,  after  all, 
he  suggested  paying  one  week's  bill  instead  of 
two.  Perhaps  it  would  be  easier  to  arrange  with 
the  vivacious  daughter? 

He  resolved  to  try,  and  the  young  lady  was  all 
smiles  and  "Mais  parfaitement,  monsieur,"  when 
he  spoke  to  her.  He  congratulated  himself  on 
having  had  the  idea;  but,  though  Beaufort  pro- 
vided him  with  the  sum  agreed  upon  next  day, 
and  repeated  that  he  "never  deserted  a  pal"  with 
an  air  of  having  achieved  a  triumph,  he  did  not 
make  up  the  deficit,  and,  instead  of  being  able  to 
square  accounts  with  the  Garins,  the  assistant- 
editor  gradually  found  himself  getting  deeper 
into  their  debt.  From  its  being  a  doubtful  point 
whether  he  would  receive  his  salary  in  full,  it  be- 
came a  question  whether  he  would  get  any  of  it 
at  all;  and  when  he  obtained  half,  he  learnt  by 
degrees  to  esteem  it  a  fortunate  week.  Beaufort 
overflowed    with    promises    and    protestations. 


CYNTHIA  199 

Everything  was  always  "on  the  eve  of  being 
righted,"  but  the  day  of  righteousness  never 
dawned.  Mademoiselle  Garin  began  to  stop 
"monsieur  Kent"  in  the  hall  and  convey  to  him 
with  firmness  that  her  mother  had  very  heavy 
obligations  to  meet,  and  Cynthia  sat  at  the  dinner- 
table  in  constant  terror  of  the  old  woman  coming 
in  and  publicly  insulting  them. 

One  morning,  when  the  laundress  brought 
back  their  linen,  Humphrey  had  to  feign  to  be 
asleep,  while  Cynthia  explained  that  "monsieur 
had  all  the  money  and  was  so  unwell  that  she  did 
not  like  to  wake  him."  The  poor  creature  was 
sympathetic,  and  went  away  telling  madame  not 
to  disquiet  herself — it  was  doubtless  only  a  pass- 
ing indisposition.  But  after  she  had  gone,  the 
girl  begged  Humphrey  to  take  a  loan  on  her  en- 
gagement-ring, and  after  some  discussion  he 
[complied.  Everything  is  more  valuable  in  Paris 
than  in  London  until  one  has  occasion  to  pawn 
it,  and  then  it  is  worth  much  less,  especially  jew- 
ellery. From  the  mont-de-piete  Kent  procured 
i about  forty  per  cent,  of  what  a  London  pawn- 
broker would  have  lent  him.  However,  the  loan 
ivas  useful.  Though  it  did  not  clear  them,  it 
afforded  temporary  relief ;  and  it  paid  the  nurse's 
Ivages,  which  were  due  the  same  day.     Cynthia 


aid  that  she  had  become  so  "demoralised" — she 


200  CYNTHIA 

used  a  happy  term  now  with  a  frequency  he  would 
have  found  astonishing  if  he  had  recalled  how  she 
talked  when  they  first  met — that  a  substantial 
payment  on  account  "made  her  feel  quite  meri- 
torious" ;  and  there  was  a  week  in  which  they  went 
to  the  theatres  again,  and  walked  past  the  bureau 
with  heads  erect. 

March  had  opened  mildly,  and  people  were 
once  more  beginning  to  sit  outside  the  cafes ;  and 
Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  was  returning  to  England. 
Kent  had  kept  his  resolution  not  to  enter  the 
yellow  drawing-room  in  the  avenue  Wagram 
when  it  could  be  avoided — partly,  no  doubt,  be- 
cause of  the  anxieties  he  had  had  to  occupy  his 
mind,  but  partly  also  by  force  of  will.  When  he 
heard  that  she  was  leaving,  though,  he  could  do 
no  less — nor  did  he  feel  it  necessary  to  do  less 
■ — than  call  to  bid  her  "au  revoir,"  and  he  was 
conscious,  as  the  servant  replied  that  she  was  at 
home,  that  he  would  have  been  disappointed 
otherwise. 

He   gown  betokened   that  visitors  were  ex- 
pected; teacups  demonstrated  that  visitors  had 
been.     She  welcomed  him  languidly,  and  mo 
tioned  him  to  a  seat. 

"I  thought  you  must  have  gone  to  London,  or 
to  Paradise,"  she  said.  "What  have  you  beer 
doing  with  yourself?" 


CYNTHIA  201 

"I've  been  so  fearfully  busy,"  he  answered 
lamely. 

"On  the  paper?" 

"Of  course." 

"I  don't  hear  good  reports  of  the  paper,"  she 
said.    "I  hope  they  aren't  true?" 

"The  paper  is  as  good  as  it  always  was,"  re- 
sponded Kent — "neither  better  nor  worse.  May 
I  ask  what  you  hear?" 

"I  heard  that  Sir  Charles  Eames  is  getting 
tired  of  it.  Says  he  is  running  a  journal  that 
nobody  reads  but  himself,  and  he  'don't  read  it 
much.'  He  informed  a  man  in  his  club,  who  told 
it  privately  to  another  man,  who  told  it  in  con- 
fidence to  a  woman  who  told  me — I  wouldn't 
breathe  a  wTord  of  it  to  anyone  myself — that  'if 
the  price  didn't  improve  soon  he  should  scratch 
it.'    What  will  the  robin  do  then,  Mr.  Kent?" 

Humphrey  looked  grave.  This  was  the  first 
;  plain  intimation  he  had  had  that  The  World  and 
his  Wife  was  likely  to  collapse,  and  badly  as  the 
post  was  paying  him  now,  it  was  more  lucrative 
than  any  that  awaited  him.  He  thought  that 
'Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  might  have  communicated  her 
news  more  considerately. 

"The  robin  will  manage  to  find  crumbs,  I  sup- 
pose," he  said;  "I  wasn't  born  on  The  World  and 
his  Wife/' 


202  CYNTHIA 

"May  I  offer  you  some  tea  and  cake  in  the 
meantime  ?" 

"No,  thanks." 

Her  tone  annoyed  him  this  afternoon;  it  was 
hard  and  careless.  He  fancied  at  the  moment 
that  his  only  feeling  for  her  was  dislike,  and 
sneered  at  the  mental  absurdities  into  which  he 
had  strayed.  There  was  a  lengthy  pause — a 
thing  that  had  seldom  occurred  between  them — 
followed  by  platitudes. 

"Well,"  he  murmured,  getting  up,  "I'm  afraid 
I  must  go." 

She  did  not  press  him  to  remain. 

"Must  you?"  she  said.  "I  dare  say  we  shall 
meet  again.    It's  a  small  world  in  every  sense." 

"I  hope  we  shall.  Au  re  voir,  and  bon  voyage* 
Mrs.  Deane-Pitt." 

"If  you  should  go  back  yourself,  you'll  come 
to  see  me?    You  know  where  I  live." 

"Thank  you ;  I  shall  be  very  glad." 

But  as  he  went  down  the  stairs  Kent  was  sur- 
prised to  perceive  that  he  felt  suddenly  mournful. 
The  noise  of  the  door  closing  behind  him  was 
charged  with  ridiculous  melancholy,  and  there 
appeared  to  him  something  sad  in  this  conven- 
tional ending  that  had  the  semblance  of  estrange- 
ment. The  sentiment  and  impression  of  the  hour 
that  he  had  spent  in  the  room  after  the  Varietes 


CYNTHIA  203 

recurred  to  him,  and  contrasted  with  it  their 
adieu  became  full  of  pathos.  He  questioned  re- 
proachfully if,  in  his  determination  not  to  be 
more  than  a  friend,  he  might  not  have  repaid  her 
own  friendship  by  ingratitude,  and  so  have 
wounded  her.  He  first  decided  that  he  would 
send  her  a  letter,  and  then  that  he  would  not 
send  her  a  letter.  He  made  his  way  through  the 
Champ  Elysees  reflectively,  and  once  half  obeyed 
a  violent  temptation  to  turn  back.  He  would 
have  obeyed  it  wholly  but  that  he  felt  its  indul- 
gence would  be  laughable,  or  that  Mrs.  Deane- 
Pitt  would  be  likely  to  look  upon  it  in  that  light. 
So  he  restrained  the  impulse.  But  he  could  not 
laugh  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

The  respite  afforded  by  the  mont*  de-piete  was 
brief,  and  all  that  Kent  received  from  Beaufort 
in  the  next  three  weeks  was  twenty  francs.  The 
Garins'  faces  in  the  hall  were  very  glum,  now, 
and  the  sum  against  "Notes  remises"  at  the  top 
of  the  bills  that  came  up  to  the  bedroom  on  Mon- 
day mornings  had  swelled  to  such  disheartening 
dimensions  that  the  debtor  no  longer  gave  him- 
self the  trouble  to  decipher  the  various  items. 
In  addition  to  this,  the  affairs  of  The  World  and 
his  Wife  had  reached  a  crisis,  and  he  learnt  from 
the  Editor  that  it  was  doomed.  An  interval  of 
restored  hope  ensued.  The  life  of  the  paper 
hung  in  the  balance — then  they  went  to  press  no 
more. 

Beaufort  declared  that  Kent's  claim  would  be 
discharged  without  delay,  and,  knowing  the  ex- 
proprietor's  position,  Humphrey  could  not  be- 
lieve that  he  would  be  allowed  to  suffer.  That 
the  Baronet  was  ignorant  of  his  claim's  existence 
and  that  it  was  Billy  Beaufort  who  had  to  find 
the  money  for  hiin,  he  had  no  idea ;  no  more  had  i 

204 


CYNTHIA  205 

he  suspected,  when  he  took  Cynthia  to  the  Nou- 
veau  Cirque  and  applauded  the  contortions  of 
"Mile.  Veronique,"  that  the  artiste  who  stood  on 
her  head,  and  kissed  her  toes  to  them,  was  in  part 
responsible  for  their  plight.  Billy,  realising  that 
the  matter  must  be  squared  somehow,  if  things 
weren't  to  become  more  unpleasant,  spoke  re- 
assuringly  of  Sir  Charles  being  momentarily  in 
tight  quarters ;  and  Humphrey,  in  daily  expecta- 
tion of  a  cheque,  made  daily  promises  of  a  settle- 
ment to  the  Garins,  while  he  discussed  with  Cyn- 
thia what  should  be  their  next  move. 

To  remain  in  Paris  would  be  useless,  and  they 
decided  that  they  would  go  back  to  England  as 
soon  as  the  cheque  was  cashed.  Perhaps  it  was 
fortunate,  after  all,  that  No.  64<  had  not  been  let! 
In  London  he  must  advertise  again,  and  a  post 
might  be  easier  to  find  now  that  he  could  call 
himself  an  "assistant-editor"  in  the  advertise- 
ment. The  days  went  by,  however,  and  Beau- 
fort, whom  he  awoke,  like  an  avenging  angel,  at 
early  morning  and  tracked  in  desperation  from 
bar  to  bar  until  he  ran  him  to  earth  at  night,  still 
remained  "in  hourly  expectation  of  the  money." 
Both  Cynthia  and  Kent  feared  that  their  inability 
to  pay  was  known  to  everybody  in  the  house ;  and 
they  imagined  disdain  on  the  face  of  the  Italian 
who  waited  on  them  at  meals,  and  indifference  in 


206  CYNTHIA 

the  bearing  of  Etienne  when  he  laid  the  fire.  The 
chambermaid's  "Bonjour,  m'sieur  et  madame," 
had  a  ring  of  irony  to  their  ears,  and  on  Mon- 
days, in  particular,  they  were  convinced  that  she 
sneered  when  she  put  down  their  tray. 

The  thought  made  the  girl  so  miserable  that 
Kent  took  an  opportunity  of  asking  mademoiselle 
Garin  if  it  was  so,  and  she  informed  him  that 
he  was  mistaken. 

"Nobody  'as  been  told,  monsieur,"  she  said; 
"oh,  not  at  all!  But,  monsieur,  it  is  impossible 
that  you  remain,  you  know,  if  your  affairs  do 
not  permit  of  a  settlement.  Your  intentions  are 
quite  honourable — well  understood;  but  my 
mother  cannot  wait.  Her  expense  is  terrible 
'eavy  'ere;  vraiment,  c'est  epouvantable,  je  vous 
assure,  et — and — and  my  mother  'as  an  offer  for 
your  rooms,  and  she  asks  that  you  and  madame 
locate  yourselves  elsewhere,  monsieur,  on  Satur- 
day." 

After  an  instant  of  dismay,  Humphrey  was,  on 
the  whole,  relieved  at  the  idea  of  being  allowed 
to  depart  in  peace  and  to  await  his  cheque  where 
the  situation  wouldn't  be  strained.  It  was  rather 
a  nuisance,  having  to  make  a  removal  for  so  short 
a  time,  but  when  it  was  effected,  he  felt  that  they 
would  be  a  great  deal  more  comfortable.  He  re- 
plied that  they  would  go,  of  course,  and  that 


CYNTHIA  207 

madame  Garin  could  depend  upon  his  sending 
her  the  amount  that  he  owed  the  moment  that  his 
arrears  of  salary  were  forthcoming.  He  said 
he  thoroughly  appreciated  the  consideration  that 
she  had  shown  them,  and  could  not  express  how 
deeply  he  regretted  to  have  inconvenienced  her. 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  murmured  mademoiselle 
Garin.  She  hesitated;  she  added,  in  a  slightly 
embarrassed  tone:  "You  know,  monsieur,  my 
mother  must  keep  your  luggage  'ere?  Her  law- 
yer 'as  advised  that." 

"What?"  said  Kent.  "Oh,  my  dear  mademoi- 
selle Garin!  I  will  give  your  mother  an  ac- 
knowledgment— a  promissory  note — whatever 
she  likes !  She  will  only  have  to  trust  me  for  a 
few  more  days;  I'm  perfectly  certain  to  have 
the  money  in  the  course  of  a  wreek.  She  won't 
keep  the  luggage,  surely?  My — my  dear  young 
lady,  think  what  it  means  with  a  wife  and  child!" 

Mademoiselle  Garin  spread  her  arms  with  a 
shrug. 

"It  is  always  'a  few  more  days,'  monsieur,"  she 
said.  "My  mother  will  permit  you  to  take  your 
necessaries  for  the  few  days,  and  the  things  be- 
longing to  the  little  one.    No  more." 

"Can  I  see  her?"  inquired  Kent,  rather  pale. 

"Oh  yes;  she  is  in  the  bureau." 

"The  servants  can  hear  everything  that  goes 


208  CYNTHIA 

on  in  the  bureau,"  he  demurred.  "Can't  I  talk 
to  her  in  her  room?" 

Mademoiselle  Garin  preceded  him  there,  and 
he  tried  his  best  to  wring  consent  from  the  old 
woman,  but  she  was  as  hard  as  nails,  and  would 
not  listen  for  long.  An  "acknowledgment  of  the 
debt,"  certainly — the  lawyer  had  advised  that, 
too,  and  he  would  prepare  it — but  their  luggage, 
jamais  de  la  vie!  The  baby's  box,  and  the  bassi- 
net ;  and  for  madame  Kent  and  himself  such  ar- 
ticles as  were  indispensable  for  one  week.  She 
would  agree  to  nothing  else, 

Cynthia  was  upstairs,  playing  with  the  baby, 
and  Kent  went  in  and  shut  the  door  that  com- 
municated with  the  nursery. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  after  a  glance  at  his 
face. 

He  wondered  if  he  could  soften  the  news,  but 
it  did  not  lend  itself  to  euphemisms.  He  told 
it  to  her  in  as  light  a  tone  as  he  could  acquire. 

"It  won't  be  for  any  length  of  time,  and  we 
can  easily  make  shift  for  a  bit,"  he  said.  "It 
isn't  as  if  the  child's  things  had  to  be  left  behind, 
you  see.  A  handbag  will  hold  all  we  really  need 
for  ourselves.  What  do  we  want,  after  all,  for 
a  week?  It  isn't  a  serious  matter,  if  one  comes 
to  look  at  it.    It  sounds  worse  than  it  is,  I  think." 


CYNTHIA  209 

She  sat  startled  and  still.  Then  she  cuddled 
the  baby  close,  and  forced  a  smile. 

"My  brown  frock  will  do,"  she  assented;  "I 
shall  go  in  that!  Oh,  it  isn't  so  dreadful,  no. 
Of  course,  just  for  a  moment  it  does  give  one 
a  shock,  doesn't  it?  But — but,  as  you  say,  it 
sounds  wrorse  than  it  is.  Were  they  nasty  to  you  ?" 

"The  old  lady  wasn't  very  affectionate;  the 
girl  wasn't  so  bad.  It's  cussed  awkward,  darling, 
I  know.  Poor  little  woman !  I  was  funking  tell- 
ing you  like  anything.  It  took  me  ten  minutes 
coming  up  those  stairs,  and  I  nearly  went  out  for 
a  walk  first." 

She  laughed;  she  was  already  quite  brave 
again. 

"We  shall  get  through  it  all  right,"  she  said. 
"Where  shall  we  go?  We  might  go  back  to  the 
hotel  where  we  stayed  first,  mightn't  we?  We 
paid  there." 

"I  thought  of  that,"  he  replied;  "but  it  was 
rather  dear,  wasn't  it?  We  had  better  spend  as 
little  a  possible;  there  are  our  passages,  and  we 
mustn't  arrive  in  London  with  nothing.  I'm 
afraid  we  shan't  be  able  to  get  your  ring  out  in 
any  case." 

"That  can't  be  helped.  I'm  sorrier  about  your 
watch  and  chain.  A  man  is  so  lost  without  a 
Watch.    Saturday?    Saturday  will  be  mi-careme, 


210  CYNTHIA 

won't  it?  We  shall  celebrate  it  nicely.  .  .  .  Oh!" 
She  sat  upright,  and  stared  at  him  with  fright- 
ened eyes.  "Humphrey — Nurse!" 

His  jaw  dropped,  and  he  looked  back  at  her 
blankly. 

"I'd  forgotten  her,"  he  said. 

"To  see  our  luggage  detained — it  could  only 
mean  the  one  thing!  Humphrey,  what  would  she 
think?  What  can  we  do?  She  mustn't,  mustn't 
know ;  I  should  die  of  shame." 

"No,"  he  said;  "she  mustn't  know,  that's  cer- 
tain. Good  Lord !  what  an  infernal  complication 
at  the  last  minute!  I  don't  know  what's  to  be 
done,  I'm  sure.  Take  the  child  in  to  her,  and  let's 
think!" 

He  filled  a  pipe,  and  puffed  furiously,  until 
Cynthia  came  back. 

"Couldn't  we,"  he  suggested — -"couldn't  we 
say  that  as  we're  at  the  point  of  going  home,  we 
don't  think  it's  worth  while  carting  the  heavy 
trunks  to  another  place?  Madame  Garin  has 
'kindly  allowed  us  to  leave  them  here  in  the  mean- 
time.'   Eh?" 

Cynthia  mused. 

"Then,  what  are  we  going  to  another  place 
ourselves  for?"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Kent;  "that  won't  do.  Hang  the 
woman!  she's  a  perfect  bugbear  to  us;  we're  all 


CYNTHIA  211 

the  time  struggling  to  live  up  to  the  teapot.  I 
wish  to  heaven  we  could  get  rid  of  her  alto- 
gether!" 

"That,"  answered  the  girl,  after  a  pause — 
"that  is  the  only  thing  we  can  do.  We  must  send 
her  away,  and  Vll  take  baby," 

"You?  A  nice  job  for  you!  You  could  never 
go  down  to  a  meal;  and  travelling  too — imagine 
it!" 

"I  can  do  it;  I'd  like  it!  Anything,  anything 
rather  than  she  should  see  us  turned  out  and  our 
luggage  seized.  That  would  be  too  awful !  Yes, 
we  must  get  her  away,  Humphrey.  We  must  get 
her  away  before  we  leave  here.  Whatever  hap- 
pens afterwards  is  our  own  affair.  She'll  be  gone 
and  know  nothing  about  it." 

"That's  very  good,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "But 
there'll  be  her  wages,  and  her  passage  back. 
Great  Scott!  and  another  month's  wages  because 
we  don't  give  her  proper  notice!  How  much 
would  it  come  to?  I've  got  two  francs  fifty,  and 
I've  po  wned  my  match-box.  I'm  afraid  we  must 
think  of  something  else." 

"\T  e  could  send  her  second-class  on  the  boat  as 
wel)  Yes,  certainly  second-class.  What  does 
that  cost?  Have  you  got  the  paper  you  had? 
"Look  for  it,  do!  it  used  to  be  in  your  bag." 

Kent  searched,  and  found  it.     He  also  felt  that 


212  CYNTHIA 

their  lot  would  be  comparatively  a  bed  of  roses 
if  they  were  spared  the  astonished  inquiries  of 
the  nurse. 

"Second-class  tickets  are  twenty-five  and 
sevenpence,"  he  announced,  "and  two  months' 
wages  are  four  pounds.  Say  five  pounds  ten. 
Well,  dear,  I  might  as  well  try  to  raise  a  mil- 
lion!" 

He  blew  clouds,  and  waited  for  an  inspiration, 
while  she  walked  about  the  room  with  her  hands 
behind  her. 

"Even  if  we  could  get  it,"  she  remarked, 
breaking  a  heavy  silence,  "I  don't  know  what 
reason  we  could  give  for  packing  her  off  so  sud- 
denly. It  would  look  rather  a  curious  proceed- 
ing, wouldn't  it?" 

"We  could  say,"  said  Kent,  "that  we  have 
decided  to  live  in  Paris  permanently.  She'd 
want  to  go  then — the  charms  of  'Olloway!" 

"Yes,"  answered  Cynthia,  "we  could  say  that. 
But  why  in  such  a  gasping  hurry?" 

"Yes,  it  would  be  rather  a  rush,  it's  a  fact. 
Well,  I'll  tell  you!  We  are  going  on  a  visit  to 
some  friends  in  the  country,  and  they  haven't 
room  for  another  nurse.  Mrs.  Harris's  i.urse 
will  do  all  that's  needed  while  we're  there.  .  .  . 
But  five  pounds  ten!  I  can  see  Beaufort  ami 
make  the  attempt;  but  the  man  hasn't  got  it  till 


CYNTHIA  213 

the  draft  comes.  You  can't  get  blood  out  of  a 
stone." 

"Let  him  go  and  pawn  his  match-box,  then, 
and  his  watch  and  chain,  and  his  engagement- 
ring.  He  must  find  it  for  you.  Humphrey,  tell 
him  you  must  have  it.  Say  it's — it's  a  matter  of 
life  or  death.  Think  of  what  we've  gone  through 
already,  trembling  in  case  she  suspected  what  a 
state  we  were  in.  The  blessed  relief  it  will  be 
to  be  alone  and  have  no  pretences  to  make!  I 
shall  feel  new-born." 

"I'll  see  him  to-day,"  said  Kent,  catching  her 
enthusiasm.  "He's  often  in  a  place  in  the  rue 
Saint-Honore  about  four  o'clock.  What  time 
is  it  now  ?  Go  in  and  ask  her — she's  the  only  one 
among  us  with  a  watch.  Tell  her  mine  has 
stopped — unless  it  has  stopped  too  often." 

"Yours  is  'being  cleaned.'  "  She  disappeared 
for  a  second,  and  returned  to  say  that  it  was 
half -past  three.  "Hurry,  and  you  may  catch 
him  now!"  she  continued.  "And — and,  Hum- 
phrey, be  very  firm  about  it,  won't  you?  If  he 
hasn't  got  it,  make  him  give  you  a  definite  prom- 
ise when  you  shall  have  it.  To-day's  Tuesday 
— say  you  must  have  it  by  Thursday,  at  the 
latest.  And  come  back  and  tell  me  the  result  as 
quickly  as  you  can.    Wait,  here's  a  kiss  for  luck." 

Kent  kissed  her  warmly — she  had  never  before 


214  CYNTHIA 

seemed  to  him  so  companionable,  such  "a  good 
fellow,"  as  she  did  in  this  dilemma — and,  picking 
up  his  hat  and  cane,  he  ran  down  the  stairs,  and 
made  his  way  to  the  buffet  in  the  rue  Saint- 
Honore  at  his  best  pace. 

Beaufort  was  not  to  be  seen  in  the  bar,  nor 
was  he  in  the  inner  room ;  but  on  inquiring  at  the 
counter,  Kent  learnt  that  a  gentleman  there  was 
now  waiting  for  Billy,  having  an  appointment 
with  him  for  a  quarter  to  four.  This  was  very 
lucky.  Kent  took  a  seat  on  the  divan  and  or- 
dered a  bock.  Boiling  a  cigarette,  he  debated 
how  he  could  put  the  matter  strongly  enough. 
He  had  expended  so  much  eloquence  of  late  with- 
out deriving  any  benefit  from  the  interviews  that 
he  did  not  feel  very  hopeful  of  the  upshot.  How- 
ever, he  was  resolved  that  he  wouldn't  fail  for 
any  lack  of  endeavour.  After  Beaufort  came  in, 
a  little  before  five,  he  sat  watching  him  warily 
until  the  other  man  took  his  leave. 

Beaufort  expressed  pleasure  at  seeing  him, 
and  asked  him  to  have  a  drink.  Kent  did  not 
refuse  the  invitation,  for  it  would  be  easier  to 
talk  there,  in  the  corner,  than  dodging  among 
the  crowd  in  the  streets,  and  he  opened  fire  at 
once.  He  felt  that  his  best  card  was  absolute 
frankness,  and  explained  the  situation  without 
reserve.     Billy  was  entirely  sympathetic.     He 


CYNTHIA  215 

romanced  about  Sir  Charles,  but  was  subse- 
quently truthful.  A  draft  from  the  Baronet 
might  be  delivered  any  morning  or  evening,  but 
in  the  event  of  its  not  coming  in  time,  he  would 
straighten  matters  out  himself!  "He  was 
damnably  short,  but  he  had  arranged  with  a  pal 
to  jump  for  him.  If  he  touched  a  bit  to-morrow 
— of  which  there  was,  humanly  speaking,  no 
doubt — Kent  should  have  a  hundred  and  forty 
francs  at  night,  and  the  balance  of  what  was 
owing  to  him  early  in  the  week."  Damon  would 
repay  himself  when  the  draft  arrived ! 

Such  devotion  demanded  another  drink,  and 
though  this  left  him  with  less  than  a  franc  in 
his  pocket,  Kent  went  back  to  the  pension  de 
famille  in  much  better  spirits,  and  feeling  that 
he  had  good  news  to  impart.  Cynthia  looked 
upon  the  tidings  in  the  same  light.  As  the  nurse 
might  learn  from  the  servants  that  their  rooms 
were  to  be  vacated  on  Saturday,  they  decided 
to  speak  to  her  without  delay.  Kent  informed 
her  that  they  were  going  to  friends  in  the  coun- 
try, preparatory  to  settling  in  Paris  for  two 
years,  and  that  she  must  make  her  preparations 
'to  return  to  England  on  Saturday  morning. 
This  gave  a  margin  for  delay  on  Beaufort's  part. 
The  young  woman  was  greatly  taken  aback,  and 
though  she  did  not  wish  to  stay,  there  was  real 


216  CYNTHIA 

feeling  in  her  voice  as  she  said  how  sorry  she 
would  be  to  leave  the  baby.  She  hung  over  the 
bassinet,  and  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  Then 
Cynthia  choked,  and  began  to  cry  too,  and  Hum- 
phrey found  her  five  minutes  later  with  her  face 
buried  in  her  pillow,  sobbing  that  she  felt 
"ashamed  to  have  told  lies  to  such  a  conscientious, 
nice-minded  girl." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Kent's  appointment  with  Beaufort  next  even- 
ing was  for  half -past  eight,  outside  the  Cafe  de 
la  Paix.  The  sous  remaining  after  the  conversa- 
tion in  the  rue  Saint-Honore  had  gone  for  a 
nursery  requirement,  so  he  was  unable  to  sit 
down  while  he  waited.  His  man  was  very  late, 
and  he  walked  to  and  fro  before  the  stretch  of 
chairs  and  tables  on  the  boulevard  for  nearly  an 
hour,  tacitly  confessing  himself  penniless  to  every 
idler  there.  When  Billy  arrived  at  last,  he  be- 
gan by  saying  that  his  news  was  "not  altogether 
unsatisfactory,"  whereat  Humphrey's  heart 
sank,  and  when  details  were  forthcoming,  it  ap- 
peared to  him  about  as  unsatisfactory  as  it  could 
possibly  have  been.  Stripped  of  the  circum- 
locution by  which  the  speaker  sought  to  palliate 
its  asperities,  the  news  was,  that  the  completion 
of  his  business  had  been  deferred  till  Saturday, 
and  that  while  he  was  confident  of  "touching" 
then,  he  feared  that  he  could  do  nothing  in  the 
meantime.  Kent  took  no  pains  to  conceal  his 
despondence.  Seeing  that  he  and  Cynthia  must 
leave  the  boarding-house  by  noon,  and  get  the 

217 


218  CYNTHIA 

nurse  out  of  the  way  and  into  the  train  by  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  "Saturday"  sounded  as 
hopeless  as  Doomsday.  He  explained  the 
urgency  of  the  situation  afresh,  over  a  fine,  and, 
after  reflection,  Billy  thought  that,  assisted  by 
the  signature  of  somebody  else,  he  could  raise  a 
hundred  and  fifty  francs  in  another  quarter. 
When  he  had  had  a  second  fine  he  was  sure  of  it, 
and  bade  Humphrey  meet  him  there  again  on 
the  morrow  at  a  quarter  to  two. 

The  following  day  was  Thursday,  and  when 
Kent  descended  about  eleven,  madame  Garin 
requested  him  to  sign  the  document  her  lawyer 
had  drawn  up.  After  that  had  been  done,  and 
duly  witnessed — one  may  do  anything  one  likes 
in  France  excepting  not  pay — Kent  told  her  that 
his  wife  wished  her  to  view  the  contents  of  the 
baby's  trunk  before  it  was  closed.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  it  was  a  rather  large  one,  and  they  were 
anxious  to  avoid  the  possibility  of  its  giving  rise 
to  remark  in  front  of  servants  at  the  moment  of 
departure.  She  replied  that  such  an  examina- 
tion was  not  necessary;  it  would  be  sufficient  if 
they  instructed  their  nurse  to  pack  nothing  that 
didn't  belong  to  the  little  one.  This  led  to  his 
informing  her  that  the  girl  was  quitting  their 
service,  and,  to  his  horror,  madame  Garin  said 
frigidly : 


CYNTHIA  219 

"You  know  what  I  have  consented  to,  mon- 
sieur? The  things  of  the  child;  and  for  madame 
Kent  and  yourself  what  is  enough  for  one  week. 
Nothing  else." 

"My  God  1"  exclaimed  Kent  with  a  gasp ;  "you 
don't  mean  to  say  you  won't  let  the  girl  take  her 
box?" 

"But  certainly  I  mean  it,"  she  returned.  "It 
was  perfectly  understood.  I  have  already  been 
too  liberal." 

"But — but — heavens  above!"  he  stammered, 
"the  girl  doesn't  owe  you  anything!  My  wife 
is  dismissing  her,  so  as  to  keep  our  humiliation 
from  her  knowledge,  madame.  If  you  refuse  to 
let  her  box  go,  the  exposure  is  complete!" 

The  proprietress  shrugged  her  shoulders: 

"That  does  not  concern  me!" 

This  time  Kent  literally  lacked  the  courage  to 
tell  Cynthia  what  had  occurred.  He  went  out, 
and  dropped  on  to  the  first  bench  that  he  came 
to,  sick  in  his  soul.  What  was  the  use  now  if 
Beaufort  did  bring  him  the  money  when  they 
met?  The  girl  could  not  be  sent  home  without 
her  luggage,  and  they  would  have  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  the  whole  affair  to  her,  and  beg  her  to 
be  tolerant  with  them.  Cynthia  had  been  very 
plucky;  she  had  taken  the  disappointment  of 
last  night  like  a  brick,  and  was  at  the  moment 


220  CYNTHIA 

full  of  hope  for  the  result  of  the  appointment 
at  a  quarter  to  two;  but  he  felt  that  this  unex- 
pected blow  would  surely  crush  her.  It  was  the 
death-stroke  to  their  scheme  and  entailed  even 
more  mortification  than  they  had  feared  origin- 
ally. He  was  at  the  foot  of  the  Champs  Ely  sees, 
and  he  sat  staring  with  wide  eyes  at  the  passers- 
by — at  the  bonnes,  big  of  bosom,  with  the  broad, 
bright  ribbons  depending  from  their  caps;  at 
the  children  with  their  hoops,  and  the  women  in 
knicker-bockers,  flashing  through  the  sunshine  on 
their  bicycles.  Paris  looked  so  light-hearted  that 
woe  seemed  incongruous  in  it. 

Now,  it  happened,  about  half  an  hour  subse- 
quent to  his  leaving  the  house,  that  Cynthia  de- 
cided to  go  with  her  baby  and  the  nurse  for  a 
walk.  Halfway  down  the  stairs  it  was  perceived 
that  something  had  been  forgotten,  and  she  con- 
tinued the  descent  alone.  To  her  dismay,  she 
saw  the  gaunt  figure  of  madame  Garin  standing 
at  the  office  door,  and  as  she  came  timorously 
down  the  last  flight,  the  proprietress  stood  with 
folded  arms,  watching  her.  Perhaps  her  ner- 
vousness was  very  evident ;  perhaps  the  other  had 
been  sorrier  for  her  than  she  had  shown;  but  as 
the  girl  reached  the  hall  the  grim  old  woman 
moved  towards  her,  and,  with  a  gesture  that  said 
as  plainly  as  words,  "Oh,  you  poor  little  soul!" 


CYNTHIA  221 

took  her  face  between  her  hands,  and  kissed  her 
on  the  forehead. 

"Listen,"  she  said;  "that's  all  right  about  the 
box  of  your  servant — be  easy  I" 

Cynthia  murmured  a  response  to  her  kindness 
without  realising  what  was  meant. 

Presently  Kent  became  aware  that,  among  the 
stream  of  nurses  and  infants  flowing  up  from  the 
place  de  la  Concorde,  were  his  own  nurse  and 
infant,  and  that  Cynthia  accompanied  them. 
She  recognised  him  before  they  reached  the 
bench,  and  coming  over  to  him  with  surprise, 
sat  down.  And  then  each  spoke  of  what  the 
other  did  not  know. 

"What  a  half-hour  you  have  had!"  she  cried 
when  she  understood. 

And  he  exclaimed: 

"But  the  relief!  Heaven  be  praised  you  came 
this  way!" 

Their  fate  now  hung  once  more  on  what  Billy 
Beaufort  would  have  to  say,  and  Kent  sped  to 
the  rendez-vous  with  restored  energy.  By  the 
clock  in  the  middle  of  the  road  it  was  twenty 
minutes  to  two  when  he  reached  the  Cafe  de  la 
Paix,  and,  as  before,  it  was  impossible  for  him 
to  take  a  chair.  He  rolled  a  thin  cigarette  with 
a  morsel  of  tobacco  that  remained  in  his  pouch, 
and  paced  his  beat,  smoking.     At  two  o'clock 


222  CYNTHIA 

Billy  had  not  come.  He  had  not  come  at  half- 
past  two.  Kent  doubted  if  this  augured  well  for 
the  tidings  that  were  to  be  communicated,  but 
he  fortified  himself  by  remembering  that  he 
awaited  a  man  who  was  rarely  punctual  in  any 
circumstances.  Nevertheless,  the  later  it  became, 
the  worse  the  chance  looked,  and  when  the  clock 
pointed  to  three,  he  began  to  lose  both  hope  and 
patience.  At  a  quarter  to  four  there  was  still 
no  sign  of  Beaufort.  The  watcher's  feet  ached, 
and  the  pavement  seemed  to  grow  harder,  and 
his  boots  to  get  tighter,  with  every  turn.  A  little 
tobacco-dust  lurked  in  the  corners  of  his  pouch 
— he  thanked  God  to  see  it;  and  carefully,  as  if 
it  had  been  dust  of  gold,  he  shook  it  on  to  a 
paper,  and  assuaged  his  weariness  and  rage  with 
another  cigarette.  Beaufort  meant  the  success 
or  the  failure  of  their  plan,  and  while  he  had  but 
scant  expectation  of  his  turning  up  now,  he  dared 
not  go  away.  He  promised  himself  to  go  at  four, 
but  at  four  dreaded  lest  he  might  miss  him  just 
by  five  minutes  and  determined  to  stop  until  a 
quarter  past.  Despair  had  mastered  him  wholly 
when  a  cab  rattled  to  a  standstill  and,  forgetting 
the  pain  of  his  feet,  he  saw  Billy  spring  out.  A 
glance,  however,  assured  him  that  the  waiting 
had  been  to  no  purpose ;  and  after  Billy  had  made 
many  apologies,  and  recounted  a  series  of  mis- 


CYNTHIA  223 

adventures,  his  statement  was  that  he  was  un- 
able to  obtain  any  money  until  Saturday  after- 
noon. 

Kent  dragged  himself  home,  and  Cynthia  and 
he  sat  with  bowed  heads. 

"We're  done,"  said  Humphrey,  "and  that's 
all  about  it!  I  must  tell  the  girl  we  can't  pay 
our  bills  and  are  turned  out.  But  she's  always 
been  paid  up  to  the  present ;  what's  it  to  do  with 
her,  after  all?" 

"We  wont  be  done!"  declared  Cynthia;  "we 
won't!    Humphrey,  if — if  I  wrote " 

"No,  by  Jove !"  he  said ;  "I  do  bar  that.  We've 
kept  our  affairs  from  your  people  all  along,  and 
we  won't  give  ourselves  away  now.  ...  Do  you 
mind  very  much?" 

She  did,  but  lied  nobly. 

"You're  perfectly  right,"  she  answered;  "I 
was  a  coward  to  think  of  it." 

Kent  squeezed  her  hand. 

"You're  a  trump,"  he  said.  "Little  woman, 
I've  another  idea — Turquand!" 

She  was  breathless. 

"Beautiful!" 

"If  Turquand  has  got  it,  Turquand  will  lend 
it;  but — but  has  he?  Well,  it's  worth  trying. 
Let's  see:  I  can  catch  the  post;  he'll  get  the  let- 
ter in  the  morning.     If  he  answered  on  the  in- 


2M  CYNTHIA 

stant,  we  could  have  the  money  to-morrow  night. 
Good  Lord!  how  tired  I  am!  Where's  the  sta- 
tionery?" 

He  dashed  off  a  note  begging  his  friend  to 
send  five  pounds  ten — or  six  pounds,  if  he  could 
manage  to  spare  so  much — immediately,  and  then 
he  remembered  that  he  could  not  buy  a  stamp. 
There  was  a  sick  pause;  defeat  confronted  them 
again. 

"There's  nothing  for  it,"  he  said;  "I  must  go 
and  ask  the  Garins!  I'd  post  it  without  one  if 
we  were  in  England,  but  here " 

He  left  her  walking  about  the  room  in  excite- 
ment and  went  down. 

The  bureau  was  shut ;  he  learnt  that  the  women 
were  out. 

"Do  you  think  Nurse  herself  has  got  one?" 
he  suggested,  coming  back,  "or — or  twenty-five 
centimes?" 

"She  is  out,  too.  She  took  baby  ten  minutes 
ago.  .  .  .  Humphrey!" 

"Another  inspiration?" 

"The  bottles!"  she  cried  triumphantly,  point- 
ing to  the  wardrobe.     "There  are  three!" 

On  an  empty  bottle  of  the  wine  that  they 
sometimes  boiled  in  the  evening,  two  sous  were 
refunded  if  a  customer  chose  to  give  himself  the 
trouble  to  take  it  back.     They  had  had  occasion 


CYNTHIA  225 

to  acquire  the  knowledge.  Kent  pulled  the  bot- 
tles out,  and,  after  an  abortive  effort  to  make 
a  parcel  of  them,  caught  up  his  letter  and  ran 
to  the  shop.  He  got  thirty  centimes — bolted  to 
the  post-office,  and  saved  the  mail. 

Nothing  could  be  done  now  but  pray  that  Tur- 
quand  might  be  in  a  position  to  oblige  him. 

In  the  meantime  the  young  woman — all  un- 
conscious of  the  jeopardy  in  which  it  had  been — 
packed  her  box  calmly  in  the  room  behind  their 
door,  and  prepared  for  her  departure  on  Satur- 
day morning  with  the  composure  of  one  whose 
ticket  and  wages  were  as  good  as  in  her  purse. 
By  Friday  evening  the  box  was  corded  and  la- 
belled. When  Kent  and  Cynthia  entered  and 
beheld  it  so,  suspense  tightened  its  grip  about 
their  hearts. 

The  mail  would  not  be  delivered  until  about 
nine  o'clock,  and  when  they  judged  that  the  hour 
was  near,  they  sat  with  tense  nerves,  straining 
to  hear  Etienne's  heavy  footsteps  on  the  land- 
ing. As  yet  they  had  not  arranged  where  to  re- 
move to  on  the  morrow,  and  they  spoke  dis- 
jointedly  of  the  necessity  for  deciding  some- 
thing. Kent  said  that  it  would  be  desirable  to 
have  two  rooms  in  the  new  place  also;  then  they 
would  be  able  to  talk  when  the  baby  was  asleep ; 
in  one  room  it  would  be  awful.     This  assump- 


226  CYNTHIA 

tion  that  the  nurse  would  not  be  with  the^v  was 
followed  by  intensified  misgivings,  anil   ai  .,' 
agination  both  saw  her  sitting  on  her  Ain  box, 
with  her  hat  on,  while  they  faltered  to     £r  \\ia\ 
after  all,  she  couldn't  go. 

"If  it  comes  in  the  morning,  you  j     ow,"  he 
said,  at  the  end  of  a  long  silence,  "it 
time.    Her  train  doesn't  start  till  ten." 

"Y-e-s,"  said  Cynthia;  "she  expects  it  to-night. 
.  .  .  Is  that  some  one  coming  upstairs?" 

"Nobody,"  answered  Kent,  listening  intently. 
.  .  .  "No,  her  train  doesn't  start  till  ten.  I 
don't  think,  in  point  of  fact,  that  we  can  look  for 
it  to-night.    You  see " 

"We  needn't  give  up  if  it  hasn't  come  when 
we  go  to  bed." 

"No;  that's  what  I  mean.  One  must  allow 
for — hark!  ...  no;  it's  nothing — one  must  al- 
low for  him  having  to " 

Cynthia  uttered  a  cry. 

"It  is!    Come  in — entrez — yes !" 

Etienne  appeared. 

"A  letter  for  monsieur!" 

Kent  snatched  it  from  his  hand;  it  was  from 
Turquand.  He  tore  it  open.  Postal  orders  for 
six  pounds  dazzled  their  eyes.  In  pencil  was 
scribbled:  "Here  you  are,  sonny! — Yours  ever, 
Turk." 


CYNTHIA  227 

Cynthia  gave  a  hysterical  laugh.  They  were 
sa  r 

Ten  minutes  later,  after  she  had  blessed  Tur- 
quand  and  her  eyes  were  dried,  she  opened  the 
door  ol  the  adjoining  room  with  great  dignity, 
and  said; 

"Ey  the  way,  Nurse,  I  had  better  give  you 
your  money  now.  You  can  change  enough  postal 
orders  for  your  ticket,  you  know,  opposite  the 
station." 

Then  she  came  back  radiant.  And  Kent  said 
salvation  must  be  celebrated  and,  as  their  cab 
next  day  wouldn't  cost  ten  shillings,  they  would 
go  out  on  the  Boulevard  and  drink  Turquand's 
health — and  buy  some  tobacco  on  the  way. 

Compared  with  what  their  state  of  mind  had 
been,  they  were  supremely  contented  now  that 
the  danger  of  their  servant  witnessing  their  dis- 
grace was  over;  and  in  the  morning,  when  they 
had  bidden  her  good-bye,  and  watched  her  drive 
away,  and  their  misfortunes  were  nobody's  busi- 
ness but  their  own,  they  drew  a  breath  of  verita- 
ble thanksgiving. 

Cynthia's  trunks,  and  Humphrey's,  and  his 
hat-box,  and  the  dressing-case  that  somebody 
had  given  to  the  girl  as  a  wedding-present,  were 
drawn  together  in  a  corner  of  the  room  to  be  left 
behind;  and,  with  intermittent  attentions  to  the 


228  CYNTHIA 

baby,  they  stored  their  toilet  articles,  and  all 
the  linen  that  it  would  hold,  in  the  hand-bag 
that  was  to  be  taken  with  them.  The  bassinet 
was  already  shut  up  and  sewn  in  its  canvas  wrap- 
per; and  the  blankets,  and  such  of  the  child's 
clothing  as  would  not  go  in  its  box,  had  been 
packed  downstairs  in  the  perambulator.  There 
was  nothing  further  to  do  but  to  put  the  oat- 
meal, and  the  saucepan,  and  a  few  other  infan- 
tile necessaries,  in  a  basket. 

Leaving  Cynthia  to  collect  these,  Kent  hurried 
out  to  obtain  accommodation  at  an  hotel.  He 
went  first  to  the  one  where  they  had  stayed  on 
their  arrival — it  was  close  at  hand.  But  all  the 
communicating  rooms  were  occupied,  and  he  was 
forced  to  try  somewhere  else.  Jordan,  who  had 
done  "Turf  Topics"  for  The  World  and  his 
Wife,  had  once  mentioned  to  him  a  place  in  the 
rue  de  Constantinople  as  being  cheap  and  com- 
fortable, and  he  bent  his  steps  there  impatiently, 
regretting  that  they  had  not  made  their  arrange- 
ments earlier.  The  mother  had  intended  to  see 
to  the  matter,  in  order  to  be  sure  that  everything 
was  suitable,  and  that  there  wasn't  a  draught 
from  the  window,  and  the  rest  of  it,  but,  being  so 
much  worried,  she  had  put  it  off. 

When  he  reached  the  address  in  the  rue  de 
Constantinople,    he    was    not    favourably    im- 


CYNTHIA  229 

pressed.  The  terms  were  low,  but  the  proprie- 
tress seemed  so,  too ;  and,  though  her  manner  was 
jovial  enough,  and  the  place  looked  clean,  he 
hesitated  to  settle  with  her.  After  he  had  tried 
at  an  hotel  in  the  rue  des  Soeurs  Filandieres,  at 
which  he  was  obliged  to  own  that  the  rate  was 
higher  than  he  was  prepared  to  pay,  he  decided 
that  he  had  been  hypercritical  and  went  back; 
but,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  the  woman  had  let 
the  apartments  that  she  had  shown  him  five  min- 
utes after  he  left.  It  was  mi-careme,  and  the 
streets  were  beginning  to  be  blocked  by  sight- 
seers. He  remembered  that  Cynthia  would  be 
sitting  anxiously  in  the  chaotic  bedroom,  won- 
dering why  he  was  gone  so  long;  and,  hurrying 
through  the  crowd,  he  returned  to  the  rue  des 
Soeurs  Filandieres  and  said  he  had  changed  his 
mind. 

He  was  glad  when  he  had  done  so.  It  was  for 
only  a  week,  perhaps  for  less;  and  there  was  a 
chambermaid   who   would   be   willing   to    assist 

!  madame  with  the  little  one  when  she  could,  since 
madame  found  herself  temporarily  without  a 
bonne.     She  had  a  cock  eye,  but  she  seemed  to 

|  have  a  good  heart,  and  Kent  assured  her  that 
any  extra  services  that  she  might  render  should 
be  rewarded. 

He  made  for  the  boarding-house  at  his  best 


230  CYNTHIA 


pace  and  told  the  waiter  to  send  for  a  cab  con- 
structed to  carry  luggage  on  the  roof.  Cynthia 
was  in  a  chair,  with  the  baby  on  her  laps  and 
she  looked  up  eagerly.  On  the  table  was  a  tray 
with  luncheon,  for  which  she  would  have  been 
unable  to  go  down,  even  if  she  had  had  the  au- 
dacity; and  she  explained  that  madame  Garin, 
finding  that  she  did  not  appear,  had  sent  it  up 
to  her,  unasked.  Cynthia  had  not  been  hungry, 
but  that  was  very  nice  of  madame  Garin !  They 
were  not  entitled  to  dejeuner  to-day. 

The  little  basket  was  ready  now,  and  Kent 
cast  a  gloomy  glance  at  the  impedimenta  that 
were  to  be  detained,  questioning  if  he  could 
manage  to  distribute  more  than  three  francs 
among  the  servants.  Almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment there  was  a  knock,  and  Etienne  entered. 

"I  have  called  a  cab,"  he  announced  surlily. 
"The  patronne  says  there  is  no  need  for  a  voiture 
en  galerie,  because  monsieur  must  not  take  his 
trunks." 

The  colour  fell  from  their  faces,  and  for  a  sec- 
ond they  stood  dumb  and  stock-still. 

"Oh  yes,"  stammered  Kent  at  last,  "we  are 
leaving  our  heaviest  trunks — we  are  going  to 
send  for  them.  But  we  need  a  voiture  en  galerie, 
all  the  same.    I  will  speak  to  madame  Garin." 

He  found  her  erect  in  the  hall  in  her  favourite 


CYNTHIA  231 

attitude,  her  arms  folded  across  her  flat  breast. 
Her  face  was  as  pale  as  his  own,  and  her  eyes 
were  angry.    Pie  looked  at  her  amazed. 

"I  don't  understand  your  message,  madame," 
he  murmured.  "I  cannot  have  a  voiture  en 
galerie?  But  it  is  for  the  things  you  have  al- 
lowed!" 

"Not  at  all!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  do  you 
suppose  you  will  remove  from  my  house?  You 
will  take  'what  I  have  allowed'?  But  you  need 
no  voiture  en  galerie  for  that !" 

"Pray  speak  quietly,"  he  implored.  "Look, 
there's  the  perambulator  over  there;  and  there 
are  the  box  and  bassinet!  Of  course  they  must 
go  on  the  roof  of  a  cab,  we  can't  put  them  in- 
side." 

"Zut!"  she  answered;  "I  do  not  permit  you 
to  take  such  things.  I  will  watch  what  you  take. 
!  Fetch  your  things  down!" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  muttered  Kent  with 
I  dry  lips,  "that  at  the  last  moment  you  refuse  to 
let  us  take  the  child's  bassinet?" 

"I  never  consented  to  it.    You  lie!" 

"Good  God!"  he  said.  "Isn't  mademoiselle 
Garin  at  home?  I  want  to  see  mademoiselle — 
where  is  she?" 

"My  daughter  is  out.  No;  you  will  not  take 
the  bassinet,  and  you  will  not  take  the  per  am- 


232  CYNTHIA 

bulator.     You  will  take  what  you  can  carry  in 
the  hand,  and  that  is  all." 

"The  perambulator  we  must  have,"  he  insisted. 
"If  you  keep  the  bassinet,  you  must  let  us  have 
the  perambulator — the  child's  bedding  and  half 
its  clothes  are  in  it." 

"Never!"  she  repeated,  and  hugged  herself  de- 
terminedly. 

"You  have  had  my  acknowledgment  of  the 
debt,  and  then  you  repudiate  the  agreement," 
said  Kent,  trembling  with  passion.  "It  is  very 
honest,  such  behaviour!" 

"  'Honest'?"  she  echoed.  "Ha!  ha!  it  was  per- 
haps 'honest'  that  you  came  here  with  your  wife, 
and  your  little  one,  and  your  nurse,  to  live  in 
my  house,  and  eat  at  my  table,  and  did  not  pay 
me  for  it?  You  are  a  thief — you  are  a  rogue 
and  a  thief!" 

His  fingers  twitched  to  smash  some  man  in  the 
face. 

"And  the  box?"  he  gasped,  fighting  for  the 
ground  inch  by  inch.    "Do  you  allow  that?'3 

"Never,  never,  never!  Go  and  fetch  your 
things  down!" 

He  went  up  slowly  with  weak  knees.    Cynthia  i 
was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  pale  and  I 
frightened.      She   had   her   hat   on;    the    baby, 
dressed  for  the  streets,  was  clasped  in  her  arms. 


CYNTHIA  233 

"She  won't  let  the  luggage  go,"  said  Kent 
hoarsely.  "God  knows  what's  come  to  her — I 
don't!  Perhaps  she  thinks  we  were  trying  to 
get  out  more  than  was  arranged ;  she  swears  now 
that  she  promised  nothing.  Come  on;  it's  no 
good  waiting.  There's  a  cab  at  the  door,  let's 
go!" 

"But — but  what  shall  we  do?"  faltered  the 

:  girl.  "Humphrey,  Baby  must  have  his  things; 
it's  impossible  to  do  without  them!  Oh,  this  is 
awful!" 

"Awful  or  not,  we  must  put  up  with  it.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  let's  get  out  of  the  damned  place 
as  fast  as  we  can!  Where  were  the  most  im- 
portant things  put?" 

"I  don't  know — they  are  everywhere,"  she  de- 
clared tremulously.     "I  want  the  basket  when 

i  we  get  in;  but  afterwards  I  want  the  box,  and 

;  the  bedding — I  want  everything  of  Baby's.  She 
must  be  a  perfect  wretch!" 

He  seized  the  basket  and  the  hand-bag,  and 

:  they  descended  the  stairs,  the  baby  crying  loudly, 
and  the  tears  dripping  down  the  girl's  cheeks. 
Fortunately,  the  boarders  had  all  gone  to  see  the 
procession;  but  madame  Garin  was  still  where 

I  Kent  had  left  her,  and  Etienne,  and  the  chamber- 
maid, and  the  Italian  waiter,  suppressing  a  smile, 
stood  watching  about  the  hall.     In  an  agony  of 


234  CYNTHIA 

shame  that  seemed  as  if  it  would  suffocate  her, 
Cynthia  slunk  past  them  to  the  cab,  her  head 
bent  low  over  the  child,  and  as  the  driver  opened 
the  door,  she  fell,  rather  than  sank,  on  to  the 
seat.  Kent  made  to  follow  her  immediately, 
but  this  was  not  to  be.  Madame  Garin  stopped 
him.  She  commanded  him  to  display  the  con- 
tents of  the  bag;  and  then  ensued  a  scene  in 
which  she  became  a  mouthing,  shrieking  harri- 
dan. Remonstrance  was  futile.  Collars,  stock- 
ings, handkerchiefs,  slippers,  were  wrested  from 
him  piece  by  piece,  and  flung  on  the  office  floor, 
while  she  loaded  him  with  abuse,  and  the  servants 
nudged  one  another,  grinning.  Kent  clung  to 
the  basket  like  grim  death,  but  the  hand-bag, 
when  she  threw  it  back  at  his  feet  at  last,  had 
been  emptied  of  so  much  that  he  dreaded  to 
guess  what  was  left  in  it.  He  picked  it  up  with- 
out a  word,  and  scurried  through  the  hail,  and 
plunged  into  the  fiacre.  Even  then  the  ordeal 
was  not  over.  As  the  man  mounted  to  the  box, 
a  woman  approached  with  whom  they  had 
grown  rather  friendly  in  the  house,  and,  seeing 
Humphrey  with  the  bag,  she  came  to  the  cab- 
window  and  put  amiable  and  maddening  ques- 
tions as  to  where  they  were  going  and  when  they 
were  coming  back.  Kent  was  voiceless,  but  Cyn- 
thia leant  forward  and  replied.    In  the  midst  of 


CYNTHIA  235 

his  misery  and  abasement,  he  admired  his  wife 
for  the  composure  she  contrived  to  simulate  in 
such  a  moment. 

On  reaching  the  hotel  it  was  necessary  to  in- 
vent some  story  to  account  for  the  absence  of  lug- 
gage, and  he  remarked  as  carelessly  as  possible 
that  it  would  be  delivered  on  the  morrow.  He 
had  ordered  luncheon  to  be  ready  for  them;  and 
in  the  room  intended  for  Cynthia  and  the  boy  a 
fire  had  been  lighted.  She  flew  to  the  basket, 
and  boiled  some  oatmeal  while  Kent  endeavoured 
to  soothe  the  mite,  whose  meal  had  been  delayed 
by  the  disturbance,  and  who  cried  as  if  he  would 
never  be  pacified  any  more.  When  the  food  was 
cooked,  and  something  like  order  was  restored, 
the  luncheon  was  allowed  to  be  brought  up,  the 
fillet  overdone,  and  the  potatoes  hard  and  stifF* 
However,  after  what  they  had  been  through,  it 
tasted  to  them  delicious;  and  emboldened  by 
the  thought  that  there  would  be  no  bill  for  a 
week,  Kent  told  the  waiter  to  take  away  the 
wine  that  was  included  and  to  bring  them  a  bot- 
tle of  burgundy  instead.  The  wine  put  heart 
i  into  them  both,  and  as  their  fatigue  passed,  they 
drew  their  chairs  to  one  of  the  windows,  and 
found  courage  to  discuss  the  situation,  while  they 
gazed  at  the  little  ornamental  garden  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  street. 


236  CYNTHIA 

The  baby  slept,  tucked  in  the  quilt  of  the  high 
big  bed,  and  Cynthia  said  that  by-and-by  he 
must  be  put  inside  the  bed  for  the  night,  in  the 
frock  that  he  had  on.  Every  minute  revealed 
some  further  deficiency.  They  opened  the  bag, 
and  they  had  neither  brushes,  nor  sponges,  and 
but  a  single  comb.  Yet  she  laughed  again,  for 
instinctively  she  realised  that  she  was  at  the  apex 
of  her  opportunity — that  at  such  a  crisis  a  wife 
must  be  either  a  solace  or  an  affliction;  she  real- 
ised, that,  whatever  happened  to  them  during 
the  rest  of  their  lives,  there  would  be  moments 
when  he  looked  back  on  their  experiences  in 
Paris  and  remembered  how  she  had  behaved. 
As  they  sat  there  beside  the  open  window,  with 
the  remainder  of  the  bottle  of  burgundy  between 
them,  and  a  smile  forced  to  her  lips,  the  philistine 
might  have  been  a  bohemian  born  and  bred. 
Again  Kent  marvelled  silently  at  her  pluck. 

By  the  time  the  dinner  was  laid  their  nerves 
were  almost  as  equable  as  their  speech.  But  this 
renewed  calmness  received  a  sudden  shock.  It 
was  the  rule  of  the  proprietress,  they  were  told 
politely,  to  ask  for  a  deposit  from  strangers,  and 
she  would  be  obliged  if  monsieur  Kent  would  let 
her  have  twenty  or  thirty  francs,  purely  as  a  mat- 
ter of  form. 

Cynthia   started  painfully,   and   Kent  refas- 


CYNTHIA  237 

tened  the  paper  of  his  cigarette  before  he  an- 
swered. 

"Certainly,"  he  said.  "Is  thirty  francs 
enough?  I've  only  a  cheque  in  my  pocket,  but 
tell  madame  I'll  give  her  the  money  to-night." 

When  the  waiter  had  withdrawn,  he  and  Cyn- 
thia looked  at  each  other  aghast.  Their  breath- 
ing-space had  been  brief.  They  knew  that  their 
having  no  luggage  had  made  the  woman  sus- 
picious of  them,  and  that,  unless  they  were  to 
be  promptly  turned  out  here  as  well,  the  thirty 
francs  must  be  found.  Dinner  had  to  be  eaten, 
lest  they  should  appear  discomfited  by  the  mes- 
sage; but  the  coffee  was  no  sooner  swallowed 
than  Kent  prepared  to  go  out.  Swearing  to  ob- 
tain two  or  three  louis  before  they  slept,  and 
reminding  the  girl  that  if  Beaufort's  expecta- 
tions had  been  fulfilled  he  would  now  be  in  a 
position  to  let  them  have  much  more,  he  went 
to  search  for  Billy  among  his  various  haunts. 
The  streets  were  massed,  and  the  slow  pace  per- 
mitted by  the  mob  infuriated  him.  All  Paris 
seemed  to  have  surged  on  to  the  Boulevard, 
thronging  the  pavements  and  the  roads,  and 
playing  the  fool.  He  pushed  forward  as  best  he 
could,  and  tried  the  Grand,  in  the  faint  hope 
that  the  other  might  be  dining  there,  or  that 
something  could  be  learnt  of  his  movements,  but 


238  CYNTHIA 

he  was  able  to  learn  nothing.  After  all,  he 
thought,  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  inquire  at 
the  bar  in  the  rue  Saint-IIonore;  and  retracing 
his  steps,  he  now  pressed  through  the  crowd  in 
the  direction  of  the  Madeleine,  impeded  and 
pelted  with  confetti  at  every  yard.  At  the  cor- 
ner of  the  rue  Caumartin  a  clown  in  scarlet  satin 
thrust  a  pasteboard  nose  into  his  face.  Kent 
cursed  him  and  shoved  him  aside,  and  the  buf- 
foon spun  into  the  arms  of  a  couple  of  shop-girls, 
who  received  him  with  shrill  screams.  The  con- 
course appeared  to  grow  noisier  and  more  im- 
penetrable every  moment.  It  was  the  first  mi- 
careme  celebration  that  the  young  man  had  wit- 
nessed, and  with  fever  in  his  veins,  and  wretched- 
ness in  every  fibre  of  him,  this  carnival  confusion, 
with  its  horseplay  and  hindrance,  was  madden- 
ing. The  lamplight  sparkled  with  the  rain  of 
coloured  discs — they  were  pitched  into  his  eyes 
and  his  ears  as  he  struggled  on — the  asphalt  was 
soft  and  heavy  with  them. 

When  he  reached  the  Madeleine  things  were 
better.  But  at  the  buffet  Beaufort  had  not  been 
seen  since  five  o'clock.  Somebody  there  believed 
that  he  had  an  appointment  at  nine  at  the  Cafe 
de  la  Paix.  Kent  edged  into  the  throng  again, 
and  forged  his  way  until  the  cafe  was  gained 
The  figure  that  he  sought  was  in  none  of  the 


CYNTHIA  239 

rooms.  He  squeezed  along  to  all  the  likeliest 
cafes  on  the  Boulevard  in  turn,  and  in  one  of 
them  he  descried  Jordan,  whom  he  buttonholed 
eagerly.  Yes,  Jordan  had  met  Beaufort  this 
evening.  Beaufort  had  said  that  later  on  he 
might  go  to  the  Moulin  Rouge.  This  was  a  clue, 
at  least,  and  Kent  tramped  wearily  until  the 
glittering  sails  of  the  windmill  revolved  in  view. 
The  price  of  admission  had  been  raised  to-night, 
but  he  could  not  hesitate.  The  dancing  had  al- 
ready begun,  and  two-thirds  of  the  assembly  ran 
about  in  fancy  dress.  A  quadrille  was  going  on, 
and  in  different  parts  of  the  ballroom  three  sets 
were  enclosed  by  vociferous,  English  spectators, 
while  the  band  brayed  a  tuneless  measure.  His 
gaze  roved  among  the  company  vainly,  and  he 
thought  that  he  would  be  able  to  make  his  ex- 
amination better  when  the  sets  broke  up.  The 
listless  dancers,  with  stuff  skirts  and  elaborate, 
be-ribboned  petticoats  lifted  to  their  shoulders, 
looked  like  factory  hands  as  they  lumped  per- 
functorily over  the  floor.  Momentarily  a  me- 
chanical smile  alleviated  the  gloom  of  their  ex- 
cessive plainness;  at  long  intervals,  spurred  to 
energy  by  the  cries  of  the  audience,  one  of  them 
gave  a  kick  higher  than  usual,  or  threw  a  bit  of 
slang  to  her  vis-a-vis;  but  for  the  most  part  the 
performers  were  as  spiritless  as  marionettes;  the 


240  CYNTHIA 

air  of  gaiety  and  interest  was  confined  entirely 
to  those  who  looked  on. 

It  was  midnight  when  Beaufort  was  found, 
and  he  was  partially  drunk.  Kent  caught  him 
by  the  arm,  and  heard  that  his  business  had  not 
been  completed  to-day,  but  was — once  more — 
"certain  for  next  week."  Completed  or  not,  how- 
ever, Kent  had  to  have  money,  and  he  made  the 
circumstances  clear,  a  task  which,  in  his  com- 
panion's condition,  was  somewhat  difficult.  He 
said  that  they  were  in  new  quarters,  penniless, 
and  that  the  woman  demanded  a  deposit;  their 
luggage  was  detained  at  the  Garins',  and  could 
not  be  recovered  unless  he  paid  the  bill,  or,  at 
all  events,  a  substantial  portion  of  it.  In  the 
meanwhile,  they  possessed  literally  nothing;  a 
good  round  sum  on  account  of  his  claim  was  ab* 
solutely  essential.  Billy  was  "tremendously 
grieved."  He  answered  that  he  could  "manage 
— twenty  francs."  And  he  repeated  with  emo- 
tion that  "he  never  deserted  a  pal."  In  the  end 
Kent  extracted  fifty,  and,  secretly  relieved  even 
by  this,  but  dog-tired,  dragged  himself  down  the 
rue  Blanche  towards  the  hotel. 

Cynthia  was  waiting  up  for  him,  reading  a 
sheet  of  an  old  newspaper  that  had  lined  one  of 
the  drawers,  to  keep  herself  awake.  She  heard 
the  result  of  his  expedition  with  gratitude.    They 


CYNTHIA  241 

could  now  give  the  proprietress  what  she  wanted, 
and  would  be  able  to  buy  a  hairbrush  and  one  or 
two  other  immediate  necessaries.  She  kissed  him, 
and  retired  to  the  next  bedroom,  where  she 
prayed  that  the  child  would  allow  her  a  good 
night.  Kent,  whose  fatigue  was  so  great  that  it 
was  a  labour  to  undress,  bade  her  call  him  if 
he  could  help  her  in  any  way. 

It  seemed  but  a  few  minutes  afterwards  that 
he  was  startled  back  to  consciousness  by  the 
baby's  crying,  and,  listening  in  the  darkness,  he 
heard  Cynthia  moving  about.  Blundering  to  the 
door  with  half-opened  eyes,  he  found  her  trying 
to  quiet  the  boy,  and  to  heat  some  food  at  the 
same  time,  and  the  weariness  of  her  aspect  made 
his  heart  bleed.  The  fire,  which  had  been  built 
up  to  last  until  the  chambermaid's  entrance,  had 
gone  out,  and  rocking  the  child  on  her  lap  with 
one  hand,  the  girl,  semi-nude,  held  a  saucepan 
with  the  other  over  the  flame  of  a  candle.  She 
rebuked  him  for  coming  in,  for,  "poor  fellow! 
he  must  be  so  tired."  He  took  the  saucepan 
from  her,  and,  fetching  the  candle  from  his  own 
room,  held  the  food  to  warm  over  both  flames, 
while  Maternity  paced  the  floor.  A  clock  in  the 
distance  told  them  that  the  hour  was  three. 

At  last  a  tremor  stirred  the  placid  surface  of 


242  CYNTHIA 

the  milk.  The  baby  was  fed,  and  coaxed  to  re- 
pose again.  And,  oblivious  now  of  everything 
but  the  need  for  sleep,  they  dropped  upon  their 
beds  and  slept. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"Good-morning,  monsieur.  Here  is  the 
chocolate." 

"Good-morning.  And  madame,  has  hers  been 
taken  in?" 

"Ah,  three  hours  ago!  .  .  .  Look,  it  is  a  beau- 
tiful day,  monsieur!" 

Then,  when  the  waiter  had  let  in  the  sunshine 
and  gone,  Kent  would  rise,  and  find  Cynthia 
either  busily  stirring  more  food  over  the  fire,  or 
preparing  the  boy's  bath.  Afterwards  she  would 
carry  him  into  the  little  enclosure  opposite,  and, 
what  with  her  unfamiliarity  with  a  nurse's  duties 
and  the  makeshifts  that  she  was  put  to,  it  often 
seemed  to  her  that  this  was  the  only  time  during 
the  day  that  she  was  free  to  sit  down. 

Their  meals  were  all  served  in  Kent's  bedroom; 
but  just  as  the  luncheon  appeared,  the  baby,  who 
was  feverish  and  fretful,  would  surely  cry,  and 
she  would  be  obliged  to  call  out  that  Kent  was 
not  to  wait  for  her.  "Begin!"  For  dinner,  she 
made  desperate  efforts.  By  this  time  the  child, 
bathed  once  more,  was  supposed  to  be  already 

243 


244  CYNTHIA 

asleep;  and  more  oatmeal  had  to  be  stirred  and 
carefully  watched  for  five-and-twenty  minutes, 
an  operation  that  entailed  burning  cheeks  and  oc- 
casionally despair,  since  the  saucepan  had  a 
habit  of  boiling  over  without  warning  and  re- 
quiring to  be  filled  and  stirred  for  twenty-five 
minutes  again.  When  the  task  was  achieved, 
there  followed  a  hurried  attempt  to  make  herself 
look  cool  and  nice  before  the  soup  arrived — 
Kent  was  apt  to  be  irritable  if  she  was  not  ready 
— and  providing  the  baby  did  not  wake  at  the 
last  moment  and  prevent  her  going  in  after  all, 
the  dinner-hour  was  very  agreeable. 

Thanks  to  the  chambermaid,  they  had  been 
able  to  dispense  with  the  tallow  candles  at  six- 
pence each,  and  had  obtained  a  lamp,  which  was 
much  more  cheerful.  The  vin  compris  had 
turned  out  to  be  rather  good,  too,  and  after  the 
appalling  meals  at  the  Garins'  the  cuisine  struck 
them  as  quite  first-rate.  Not  infrequently,  when 
the  coffee  was  brought  in,  they  sent  down  for 
liqueurs,  and  their  evenings,  despite  the  worry 
of  the  day,  and  their  ignorance  where  the  money 
was  coming  from  to  pay  the  bill,  were  very  jolly. 

Beaufort's  expectations  were  still  unrealised. 
On  Tuesday^  he  was  certain  "Things  would  be 
right  on  Thursday,"  and  on  Thursday,  with  un- 
diminished confidence,  he  repeated,  "Early  in 


CYNTHIA  245 

the  week."  The  proprietress  of  the  hotel  was 
a  huge  red  woman,  who  had  been  a  low-class 
domestic  servant.  The  "gracious  service  unex- 
pressed" by  which  she  had  attained  her  present 
prosperity,  the  squinting  chambermaid  did  not 
know,  and  she  added,  with  a  grin  and  a  grimace, 
that  it  was  really  very  difficult  to  conjecture  it. 
The  flaming  countenance  and  belligerent  eye  of 
the  proprietress  would,  in  the  circumstances, 
have  scared  Kent  from  the  door,  had  she  been 
visible  when  he  came  there  to  arrange,  and  on 
Friday  night  he  slept  uneasily.  She  presented 
the  bill  next  morning  at  nine  o'clock,  and  at 
twelve  sent  him  a  message  that  she  wished  it  to 
be  settled  at  once.  His  interview  with  her  was 
eminently  unpleasant,  and  on  Monday,  when  the 
fire  for  the  child  was  not  laid  and  Cynthia  in- 
quired the  reason,  she  learnt  that  the  woman  had 
forbidden  the  servant  to  take  up  any  fuel. 

But  for  Nanette,  their  position  would  now 
have  been  untenable.  She  smuggled  wood  to  the 
room;  pacified  her  mistress  by  the  recital  of  im- 
aginary telegrams  picked  up  on  monsieur  Kent's 
floor;  and  finally,  squeezing  Cynthia's  hand  one 
afternoon,  offered  to  bring  down  some  money 
that  she  had  saved  out  of  her  wages.  This  was 
the  last  straw.  Cynthia  put  her  arms  round  her 
neck  and  kissed  her;  and  when  Humphrey  came 


246  CYNTHIA 

home  and  she  told  him  what  had  happened,  they 
both  felt  that  to  have  to  decline  such  a  loan  and 
wish  that  it  could  be  accepted,  was  about  the 
deepest  humiliation  to  which  it  was  possible  for 
people  to  sink. 

They  were  mistaken,  but  it  was  the  lowest 
point  that  they  themselves  were  called  upon  to 
touch.  The  day  following,  Beaufort  telegraphed, 
asking  Humphrey  to  meet  him  at  the  Cabaret 
Lyonnais,  where,  at  a  moderate  price,  he  ordered 
a  little  dinner  of  supreme  excellence.  Billy  had 
not  had  his  loan  made  yet — that,  he  said  buoy- 
antly, was  "certain  for  next  week" — but  he  had 
had  a  lucky  night  at  baccarat.  And  after  the 
benedictine  he  pulled  out  a  bundle  of  notes  on 
to  the  table  of  the  shabby  restaurant  and,  beam- 
ing with  rectitude,  paid  his  debt  in  full. 

With  a  cigar  in  his  mouth  and  delight  bub- 
bling in  his  veins,  Kent  jumped  into  a  cab,  and, 
having  rattled  to  the  rue  des  Sceurs  Filandieres, 
threw  their  receipt  and  the  remainder  of  the 
money  into  Cynthia's  lap.  She  nearly  dropped 
the  baby  with  astonishment,  and  though  they 
were  unable  to  go  out  anywhere,  it  was  perhaps 
the  liveliest  night  that  they  had  spent  in  Paris. 
After  adding  the  Garins'  account,  and  the  cost 
of  their  return,  and  a  present  to  Nanette,  it  was 
momentarily  disconcerting  to  perceive  how  few 


CYNTHIA  247 

of  the  notes  would  be  left;  but  the  relief  was  so 
enormous  that  their  spirits  speedily  arose  again, 
and,  extravagant  as  it  was,  they  ordered  cham- 
pagne, and  invited  Nanette  to  share  it. 

Kent  recovered  their  luggage  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  the  morning  after  that  they  departed 
for  London.  They  had  heard  in  the  meanwhile 
that  the  Walfords  could  easily  put  them  up  until 
No.  64  was  ready  for  them.  The  journey  with- 
out a  nurse  was  awkward,  and  though  it  had  been 
essential  to  go  to  the  Walfords',  Kent  was  cha- 
grined to  reflect  that  her  absence  would  have 
to  be  explained.  Compared  with  the  crossing 
from  Newhaven,  this  passage  was,  to  Cynthia, 
who  had  to  remain  below  all  the  time,  a  long 
voyage;  when  they  reached  Victoria  at  last,  she 
felt  that  she  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to 
be  going  to  the  Grosvenor  Hotel.  Strawberry 
Hill  was  gained  about  nine  o'clock,  and  Kent 
found  the  house  a  pathetic  descent  from  The 
Hawthorns.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walford,  however* 
wTere  not  unamiable,  and  as  they  did  not  refer 
to  the  absence  of  the  nurse  otherwise  than  by 
inquiring  how  soon  he  expected  to  replace  hery 
he  concluded  that  his  wife  had  anticipated  their 
surprise  and  discounted  it  more  or  less  dexter- 
ously in  her  letters. 

"So  the  paper  was  a  failure?"  said  Walford, 


348  CYNTHIA 

when  the  excitement  of  the  entrance  had  sub- 
sided. "Oh,  well,  you  will  be  able  to  get  some- 
thing to  do  here,  I  dare  say,  before  long.  What 
do  you  think  of  the  house?    Not  so  bad,  eh?" 

"Not  bad  at  all,"  said  Kent— "very  pretty! 
That  was  awful  news,  sir !  I  was  infernally  sorry 
to  hear  about  it.  Might  have  been  worse,  though 
— a  good  deal." 

"Ups  and  downs,"  said  the  jobber;  "we'll  get 
square  at  the  finish.  Grin  and  bear  it,  Louisa, 
old  girl!    You'll  always  have  enough  to  eat." 

Mrs.  Walford  laughed  constrainedly.  She  did 
not  relish  allusion  to  their  reverses;  it  appeared 
to  her  insult  added  to  injury. 

"I  don't  think  we've  either  of  us  much  cause 
to  grieve,"  she  answered.  "We're  very  comfort- 
able here,  don't  you  think  so,  Humphrey?  There 
are  such  nice  people  in  the  neighbourhood,  Cyn- 
thia— people  who  move  in  the  best  society,  and 
- — hee,  hee,  hee! — we  are  making  quite  a  fash- 
ionable circle;  we  are  out  almost  every  night. 
Well,  I  don't  hear  much  about  Paris?  Did  you 
have  a  jolly  time?" 

"We  went  everywhere  and  saw  everything," 
said  Cynthia.  "Humphrey  got  no  end  of  tickets, 
and — well,  yes,  Paris  is  lovely!" 

"Why 'well,  yes'?" 

"Well,  of  course,  the  paper's  stopping  was  an 


CYNTHIA  249 

anxiety  to  us,  mamma.  Naturally.  How's  Aunt 
Emily?" 

"Emily  writes  us  once  a  week,  acknowledging 
the  receipt  of  her  allowance.  How  she  is  I  really 
can't  tell  you ;  she  says  very  little  more  than  that 
she  has  'received  the  money.'  She's  living  in 
apartments  in  Brunswick  Square,  and  I  believe 
she  is  very  glad  she  is  alone.  I  am,  I  can  tell 
you!    She  has  become  very  sour,  Emily  has." 

"Apartments  in  Brunswick  Square  aren't  so 
remarkably  cheap,"  said  Kent.  "Aunt  Emily 
must  be  expensive,  mater?" 

"Well,  she  has — er — one  room.  It's  a  nice 
large  room,  I  understand,  and  quite  enough  for 
one  person,  I'm  sure!  There  was  no  occasion 
for  her  to  take  a  suite,  she  isn't  going  to  give 
any  parties." 

"No  occasion  whatever.  A  bedroom  can  be 
very  cosy  when  the  lamp's  lighted  and  there's 
a  bottle  of  wine  on  the  table,  can't  it,  Cynthia?" 

"She  won't  have  any  bottles  of  wine.  What 
are  you  thinking  of?"  said  Mrs.  Walford.  "Not 
but  what  she  could  afford  wine,"  she  added 
hastily;  "but  it  doesn't  agree  with  her;  it  never 
did!  I  suppose  you  know  that  Csesar  is  still  in 
Germany?  He  has  settled  there.  If  there  are 
moments  when  I  feel  out  of  it  in  spite  of  the 
company  we  see  at  Strawberry  Hill,  it's  when 


250  CYNTHIA 

I  read  of  the  life  that  boy  leads  in  Berlin.  He 
is  in  a  brilliant  circle — most  brilliant!" 

"Cynthia  told  me  he  had  a  first-rate  thing." 

"Capital  thing!"  affirmed  Sam  briskly.  "I 
tell  you,  he's  going  to  the  top  of  the  tree.  When 
he's  my  age  Caesar  will  be  a  big  figure  in  Eu- 
rope." 

Kent  thought  he  was  a  fair  size  already,  but 
replied  briefly  that  he  had  been  "very  fortunate." 

"Ability,  my  lad!  He's  got  the  brains!  Do 
you  know,  Louisa,  it  was  damn  foolishness  of 
us  ever  to  persuade  that  boy  to  go  on  the  stage? 
He  was  meant  for  what  he  is — we'd  no  right  to 
divert  his  natural  bent.  He's  in  the  proper 
groove  because  his  tendency  was  too  strong  for 
us.  But  we  were  wrong — I  say  we  did  very 
wrong!  By  George!  he  might  never  have  made 
more  than  a  couple  of  hundred  a  week  among 
greasy  opera-singers  all  his  life.    What  a  thing!" 

By  dint  of  many  midnight  conferences  with 
Louisa,  he  had  almost  succeeded  in  believing  that 
he  meant  part  of  what  he  said. 

"Are  his  prospects  so  very  wonderful,  then?" 
asked  Cynthia,  surprised.  "What  is  it  he  is 
doing?     It  is  only  a  sort  of  clerkship,  isn't  it?" 

"A  clerkship?"  shrieked  her  mother.  "How 
can  you  talk  such  ridic'lous  nonsense?  A  clerk- 
ship?   Absurd!    He's  McCullough's  right  hand 


CYNTHIA  251 

— quite  his  right  hand!  McCullough  says  he 
would  be  worth  twice  as  much  as  he  is  to-day 
if  he  had  met  Csesar  five  years  ago.  He  told 
your  papa  so  last  week — didn't  he,  Sam?" 

"He  did,"  said  the  jobber.  But  there  was  less 
conviction  in  his  tone.  This  was  new,  and  he 
hadn't  taught  himself  to  try  to  credit  it  yet. 

"He  told  your  papa  that  Caesar's  power  of — 
er — of  gripping  a  subject  was  immense;  he  had 
never  met  anything  like  it.  He  consults  him  in 
everything ;  he  doesn't  take  a  step  without  asking 
Caesar's  opinion  first;  I  don't  suppose  a  young 
man  ever  had  such  an  extraordinary  position  be- 
fore. Clerkship?  Ho,  you  don't  know  what 
you're  talking  about!" 

Kent  gave  the  conversation  a  twist  by  inquir- 
ing Miss  Wix's  number,  as  he  and  Cynthia  would 
have  to  pay  her  a  visit;  and,  on  searching  for 
her  address,  Mrs.  Walford  discovered,  with  much 
surprise,  that  she  was  not  in  Brunswick  Square, 
after  all,  but  that  her  one  room  was  in  a  street 
leading  out  of  it. 

The  mistake  was  unimportant.  Moreover,  his 
mind  was  too  much  occupied  for  him  really  to 
think  of  making  social  calls  on  any  one  but  Tur- 
quand.  To  the  office  of  The  Outpost  he  betook 
himself  next  morning,  and  learnt  that  his  friend 
was  at  Brighten  until  Monday.     This  did  not 


252  CYNTHIA 

look  as  if  he  had  been  pressed  for  his  six  pounds, 
but  in  other  respects  it  was  disappointing.  Kent 
proceeded  from  The  Outpost  to  the  offices  of  two 
other  papers,  where  he  left  advertisements,  and 
after  that  he  had  only  to  stroll  back  through 
the  streets,  which  looked  very  ugly  and  depress- 
ing after  Paris,  to  Ludgate  Hill.  Luncheon 
was  over  when  he  re-entered  the  villa,  but  it  had 
not  been  cleared  away,  and  he  found  Cynthia 
in  the  dining-room  alone,  reading  a  novel.  He 
noted,  with  as  agreeable  surprise  as  she  could 
have  afforded  him,  that  it  was  the  copy  of  his  own 
book  that  he  had  given  to  Mrs.  Walford  on  their 
return  from  Dieppe.  He  looked  at  his  wife 
kindly. 

"Turk's  not  in  town,"  he  said,  helping  himself 
to  cold  sirloin  and  salad;  "gone  to  Brighton  for 
a  day  or  two.  I've  paid  for  my  advertisements. 
Have  you  sent  off  yours  yet,  to  try  to  induce  a 
general  servant  to  accept  a  situation?" 

Cynthia  shook  her  head  meaningly,  and  came 
across  and  took  a  chair  beside  him. 

"Kemp  is  awfully  nice  with  Baby,"  she  said; 
"she  is  upstairs  with  him  now,  and  on  the  whole 
I've  been  thinking  that  we  had  better  not  hurry 
to  get  home  again ;  we  had  better  be  a  long  time 
arranging  matters,  Humphrey!  While  we  are 
here  we  haven't  any  expenses." 


CYNTHIA  253 

Kent  stared,  and  then  smiled. 

"This  is  abominable  morality,"  he  said.  "Paris 
has  certainly  corrupted  you,  young  woman. 
And,  besides,  your  people  would  worry  my  life 
out  with  questions.  Nothing  puts  me  in  a  worse 
temper  than  being  asked  what  my  news  is  when 
I  haven't  any." 

"That's  all  very  well,  my  dear  boy,  but  we 
have  no  money.  There's  a  quarter's  rent  over- 
due now,  isn't  there?  and  we  should  only  have  a 
month's  peace  before  the  tradespeople  began  to 
bother.  I  really  think  we  ought  to  take  two  or 
three  weeks,  at  all  events,  finding  a  girl;  I  do 
indeed.  Mamma  and  papa  would  beg  us  to  stop 
if  they  knew  what  a  state  we  were  in;  it  seems 
to  me  we  ought  to  do  it  without  giving  them 
the — ahem — needless  pain  of  listening  to  our 
confession." 

"You're  very  specious,"  laughed  Kent.  The 
semi-serious  conclusion  might  have  been  uttered 
by  himself,  and  he  approved  the  tone  without 
recognising  the  model.  "Has  your  mother  no- 
ticed that  you  haven't  got  your  ring  on?" 
!  "No.  I  couldn't  tell  her  a  story  about  it,  and 
I'm  praying  that  she  won't.  I've  been  envying 
you  your  trouser-pockets  ever  since  we  arrived. 
Don't  take  ale,  Humphrey — have  some  claret,  it 


254  CYNTHIA 

will  do  you  more  good.  If  we  sold  our  furni- 
ture  " 

"What  would  it  fetch  at  a  sale?  And  apart- 
ments would  cost  us  more  than  the  house!  No 
.  .  .  we'll  make  ourselves  welcome  here  for  a 
week  or  so.  And — well,  let's  hope  the  advertise- 
ments will  turn  up  trumps!  Then  we  shall  be 
independent." 

One  of  the  advertisements  was  to  appear  on 
Monday. 


CHAPTER  XX 

It  was  slightly  disheartening  to  perceive  how 
many  other  assistant-editors  were  open  to  offers, 
and  he  had  the  uncomfortable  consciousness  that 
his  competitors'  experience  was  probably  a  great 
deal  wider  than  his  own.  He  knew  that  a  daily 
was  out  of  the  question  for  him,  and  his  chance 
of  securing  a  post  on  a  periodical  seemed  scarcely 
better  on  Monday  morning,  when  he  saw  the 
"Wanted"  columns.  Cynthia  declared  that  his 
own  advertisement  "read  nicer  than  any  in  the 
list"  and  that  if  she  were  an  editor  it  would  cer- 
tainly be  the  one  to  attract  her  attention;  but 
Cynthia  was  his  wife  and  not  an  editor,  and  her 
view  encouraged  him  no  more  than  Sam  Wal- 
ford's  supposition  at  the  breakfast  table,  that  he 
might  "obtain  the  management  of  a  sound  maga- 
zine." 

He  went  in  the  evening  to  Soho,  and  Cornelia's 
successor,  in  opening  the  door,  told  him  that  Tur- 
quand  had  returned.  The  journalist  was  at  the 
table,  writing  furiously,  and  Kent  declined  to 
interrupt  him  more  than  he  had  already  done 

255 


256  CYNTHIA 

by  entering.  Turquand  indicated  the  cupboard 
where  the  whisky  was  kept;  and,  picking  up  a 
special  edition,  Kent  sat  silent  until  the  other 
laid  down  his  pen. 

"That's  off  my  chest!"  said  Turquand,  look- 
ing up  after  twenty  minutes.  "Well,  my  Pari- 
sian, how  do  you  carry  yourself?  Do  you  still 
speak  English?" 

"I  can  still  say  'thanks'  in  English,"  answered 
Kent.  "I  was  devilish  obliged  to  you,  old  chap. 
Here's  your  oof." 

"Rot!"  said  Turquand.  "Have  you  been  pop- 
ping anything  to  get  it?" 

"The  popping  took  place  before  I  wrote  you. 
Don't  be  an  ass;  I  couldn't  take  the  things  out, 
even  if  I  kept  it.  Go  on;  don't  play  the  fool! 
Well,  I've  had  some  bad  quarters  of  an  hour 
in  the  pleasant  land  of  France,  I  can  tell  you." 

"That's  what  I  want  you  to  do,"  said  Tur- 
quand. "Let's  hear  all  about  it.  What  do  you 
think  of  that  whisky?  Half  a  crown,  my  boy; 
my  latest  discovery!  I  think  it's  damned  good 
myself." 

He  listened  to  the  recital  with  an  occasional 
smile,  and  somehow,  now  the  trouble  was  past, 
many  of  the  circumstances  displayed  a  comic  side 
to  the  narrator.     What  was  quite  destitute  of 


CYNTHIA  257 

humour  was  the  present,  and  when  they  fell  to 
discussing  this,  both  men  were  glum. 

"I  suppose  you  haven't  been  able  to  do  any- 
thing with  the  novel?"  Kent  asked.  "Has  it 
made  the  round  yet,  or  does  a  publisher  remain 
who  hasn't  seen  it?" 

"It  came  back  last  week  from  Shedlock  and 
Archer.  Oh  yes,  publishers  remain.  It's  at 
Thurgate  and  Tatham's  now;  I  packed  it  off  to 
them  on  Friday.  Farqueharsen  was  no  use;  I 
tried  him,  as  you  asked;  he  rejected  it  in  a  few 
days.    I  wrote  you  that,  didn't  I  ?" 

"You  did  communicate  the  gratifying  intelli- 
gence.   Vvrhere  has  it  been?" 

Turquand  produced  a  pocket-book. 

"Farqueharsen,  Rowland  Ellis,  Shedlock  and 
Archer,"  he  announced.  "I  must  enter  'Thur- 
gate and  Tatham.'  I  dare  say  you'll  place  it 
somewhere  in  the  long-run ;  we  haven't  exhausted 
the  good  firms  yet.  By-the-bye,  the  front  page 
has  got  a  bit  dilapidated;  you'd  better  copy  that 
i!  out  and  restore  the  air  of  virgin  freshness  when 
Thurgate  sends  it  home." 

"You  expect  he  will,  then?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  expect,  you  seem  so 
infernally  unlucky  with  it.  For  the  life  of  me, 
I  don't  know  why  it  wasn't  taken  by  Cousins, 
in  the  first  instance.     I  looked  it  through  again 


258  CYNTHIA 

the  other  night,  and  I  consider  it's — I  don't  want 
to  butter  you,  but  I  consider  it's  great  work; 
by  Jove,  I  do!" 

Kent  glowed ;  he  felt,  as  he  had  done  all  along, 
that  it  was  the  best  of  which  he  was  capable, 
and  praise  of  it  was  very  dear  to  him,  even  though 
the  praise  was  a  friend's. 

"I  say,  you  know  about  your  wife's  aunt,  I 
suppose?"  said  Turquand.  "What  do  you  think 
of  her?" 

"She  has  left  the  Walfords,  you  mean?  Who 
told  your 

"Miss  Wix  told  me.  But  I  didn't  mean  that 
departure;  I  meant  her  other  one." 

"Not  heard  of  any  other  departure  of  the 
lady's.    What?    Where's  she  gone?" 

"She  has  gone  to  journalism,"  said  Turquand, 
with  a  grin;  "the  fair  Miss  Wix  is  a  full-blown 
journalist!  Don't  your  wife's  people  know? 
She's  keeping  it  dark  then.  She  came  to  see  me, 
and  said  her  income  was  slightly  inadequate,  and 
she  'thought  she  could  do  some  writing.'  Wanted 
to  know  if  I  could  put  her  in  the  way  of  any- 
thing." 

"Get  out!"  scoffed  Kent.  "Did  she  really 
come  to  see  you,  though?  Very  improper  of 
her!" 

"Oh,  Miss  Wix  and  I  always  took  to  each 


CYNTHIA  259 

other.  I  think  she  dislikes  me  less  than  any- 
body she  knows.  I'm  not  kidding  you;  it's  true, 
honour  bright." 

"What,  that  she's  writing?" 

Turquand  nodded.  His  face  was  preter- 
naturally  solemn,  but  his  eyes  twinkled. 

"I  got  her  the  work,"  he  said;  "it  just  hap- 
pened I  knew  of  a  vacancy." 

"Well,  upon  my  soul!"  exclaimed  Humphrey. 
"I  wish  you'd  get  some  for  me.  Doesn't  it  just 
happen  that  you  know  of  another?" 

"Ah!  you  aren't  so  easy  to  accommodate. 
Miss  Wix  is  a  maiden,  and  her  exes  aren't  large. 
She  gets  a  guinea  a  week,  and  is  affluent  with  it. 
It's  a  beautiful  publication,  sonny — a  journal  for 
young  gals — and  it  sells  like  hot  cakes.  I  tell 
you,  The  Outpost  would  give  its  ears  for  such  a 
circulation." 

Kent  stared  at  him  incredulously. 

"A  journal  for  young  girls?"  he  echoed.  "The 
acrimonious  Wix?  Is  this  a  fact,  or  delirium 
tremens?" 

"Fact,  I  swear.    She  does  the  Correspondence 

;page;  she's  been  on  it  a  fortnight  now.     She's 

rAunt'  something — I  forget  what,  at  the  moment 

|| — they're  always  'Aunt'  something  on  that  kind 

of  paper.     The  young  gals  write  and  ask  her 

questions  on  their  personal  affairs.    One  of  'em 


260  CYNTHIA 

says  she  is  desperately  in  love  with  a  gentleman 
of  her  own  age — seventeen — and  isn't  it  time 
he  told  her  his  intentions,  as  his  'manner  is  rather 
like  that  of  a  lover' ;  and  another  inquires  if  'mar- 
riage between  first  cousins  once  removed  is  pun- 
ishable by  law.'  She  calls  them  her  nieces,  and 
says,  'No,  my  dear  Plaintive  Girlie;  I  do  not 
think  you  need  despair  because  the  gentleman  of 
your  own  age  has  not  avowed  his  feelings  yet. 
A  true  lover  is  shy  in  the  presence  of  his  queen; 
but,  with  gentle  encouragement  on  your  part,  all 
will  be  well.  I  was  so  glad  to  have  your  sweet 
letter.'  " 

"Miss  Wix?" 

"Miss  Wix,  yes.  Her  comforting  reply  to 
Changed  Pansy  the  first  week  was  a  master- 
piece. Must  have  bucked  Changed  Pansy  up  a 
lot.  And  occasionally  she  has  to  invent  a  letter 
from  a  mercenary  mother  and  admonish  her. 
The  admonishments  of  mercenary  mothers  are 
estimated  to  sell  fifteen  thousand  alone.  You 
should  buy  a  copy;  it's  on  all  the  bookstalls." 

"Buy  it!"  said  Humphrey;  "I'd  buy  it  if  it 
cost  a  shilling.  What's  it  called?  Well,  I'm  not 
easily  astonished,  but  Miss  Wix  comforting 
Changed  Pansy  would  stagger  the  Colossus  of 
Rhodes.    Does  she  like  the  work?" 

"  'Like'  it?    My  boy,  she  execrates  it — sniffs  I 


CYNTHIA  261 

violently,  and  gets  stiff  in  the  back,  whenever 
the  stuff  is  mentioned.  That's  the  cream  of  the 
whole  affair.  The  disgust  of  that  envenomed 
spinster  as  she  sits  ladling  out  gush  to  romantic 
schoolgirls  makes  me  shake  in  the  night.  I've 
got  her  name  now!  She's  'Auntie  Bluebell.' 
'Auntie  Bluebell's  Advice  to  Our  Readers'; 
Winsome  Words,  One  penny  weekly." 

Kent  himself  began  to  shake,  and  but  that  the 
bookstalls  were  shut  when  he  took  his  leave,  he 
would  have  borne  a  copy  home.  He  told  the 
news  to  Cynthia,  and  she  laughed  so  much  that 
Sam  Walford,  underneath,  turned  on  his  pillow, 
and  remarked  gruffly  to  Louisa  that  he  didn't 
know  what  Cynthia  and  Humphrey  had  got  to 
be  so  lively  about,  he  was  sure,  considering  their 
circumstances,  and  that  he  was  afraid  Hum- 
phrey was  "a  damn  improvident  bohemian." 

Their  mirth  was  short-lived,  unfortunately. 
The  first  advertisement  was  productive  of  no 
Tesult;  and  the  solitary  communication  received 
after  the  appearance  of  the  second  was  a  cir- 
cular from  a  typewriting  office.  The  outlook 
[now  was  as  desperate  as  before  the  post  on  The 
[World  and  Ids  Wife  turned  up,  and  their  pecu- 
niary position  was  even  worse  than  then.  When 
they  had  been  at  Strawberry  Hill  a  week,  too, 
the  warmth  of  the  Walfords'  manner  towards 


262  CYNTHIA 

their  son-in-law  had  perceptibly  decreased;  and 
though  Kent  did  not  comment  on  the  difference 
in  his  conferences  with  Cynthia,  he  knew  that  she 
was  conscious  of  it  by  her  acquiescing  when  he 
asserted  that  they  had  been  here  long  enough. 

At  this  stage  he  would  have  taken  a  clerk- 
ship gladly  if  it  carried  a  salary  sufficing  for 
their  needs;  and  after  they  had  returned  to 
Leamington  Road,  and  had  temporised  with  the 
landlord,  and  sold  a  wedding  present  for  some 
taxes,  and  were  living  on  credit  from  the  trades- 
people, he  began  to  debate  whether  the  wisest 
thing  he  could  do  wouldn't  be  to  drown  himself 
and  relieve  Cynthia's  necessities  with  the  money 
from  his  life  policy. 

The  idea,  which  primarily  presented  itself  as 
an  extravagance,  came,  by  reason  of  the  fre^ 
quency  with  which  it  recurred  to  him,  to  be  re- 
volved quite  soberly;  he  wondered  if  Cynthia 
would  grieve  much,  and  if,  when  his  boy  coulc 
understand,  she  would  talk  to  him  of  his  "papa," 
or  provide  him  with  a  stepfather.  He  did  not, 
in  these  conjectures  as  to  the  post-mortem  pro-; 
ceedings,  lose  sight  of  The  Eye  of  the  Beholder  £ 
and  devoutly  he  trusted  that  it  would  see  the 
light  after  he  was  dead,  and  make  so  prodigiouSi 
a  stir  that  the  names  of  the  publishers  who  had 
refused  it  were  held  up  to  obloquy  and  scorn. 


CYNTHIA  263 

He  was  walking  through  Victoria  Street  to- 
wards the  station  one  afternoon,  and  mentally 
lying  in  his  grave  while  the  world  wept  for  him, 
when  he  was  brought  to  an  abrupt  standstill  by 
a  greeting.  He  roused  himself  to  realities  with 
a  start,  and  found  that  the  white-gloved  hand 
that  waited  to  be  taken  by  him  belonged  to  Mrs. 
Deane-Pitt. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Kent?  Are  you  trying  to 
cut  me?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  didn't  see !  It's  awfully 
stupid  of  me;  I'm  always  passing  people  like 
that." 

"You've  returned,  then!    For  good?" 

"Oh  yes;  we  live  in  town,  you  know— in  the 
suburbs,  at  least." 

"You  told  me,"  she  smiled.    "  'Battersea.'  " 

"So  I  did.  'Battersea'  is  Streatham,  but  that's 
a  detail." 

The  mechanicalness  of  his  utterance  passed, 
and  animation  leapt  back  in  him  as  he  recovered 
from  his  surprise.  The  sun  was  shining  and 
her  sequins  were  iridescent.  She  was  wearing 
, violets.  His  impression  embraced  the  trifles  with 
a  confused  sense  that  they  made  a  delightful 
whole — the  smart,  smiling  woman  in  the  sun- 
shine, the  purple  of  the  flowers,  and  the  warmth 
of  her  familiar  tones. 


264  CYNTHIA 

"So  you  come  to  Victoria  every  day,  and  you 
haven't  been  to  see  me!"  she  said.  "When  did 
you  leave  Paris?" 

"I — I've  done  nothing.  Of  course  you  know 
The  World  and  his  Wife  is  dead,  Mrs.  Deane- 
Pitt?  When  did  I  leave?  Oh,  soon  after  the 
funeral." 

"I  trust  you've  recovered  from  the  bereave- 
ment," she  laughed.  "Are  you  on  anything 
here?" 

"Not  yet.  Editors  are  so  blind  to  their  own 
interests." 

"Well !"  She  put  out  her  hand  again,  and 

repeated  her  number.  "When  will  you  come  in? 
I'm  nearly  always  at  home  about  five.  Good- 
bye; I'm  going  to  the  Army  and  Navy,  and  I 
shall  be  late." 

Kent  continued  his  way  cheerfully.  The  brief 
interchange  of  conventionalities  had  diverted  his 
thoughts,  and  his  glimpse  of  this  woman  who 
took  her  debts  with  a  shrug,  and  had  candidly 
adapted  her  ideals  to  her  requirements  till  the 
former  had  all  gone,  acted  as  a  fillip  to  him. 
She  typified  success,  of  a  kind,  and  in  a  minute 
he  had  seemed  to  acquire  something  of  her  owni 
vigour.  It  made  him  happy,  also,  to  observe 
that  the  manner  of  their  parting  had  had  no 
sequel;  and,  in  recalling  the  mood  in  which  he 


CYNTHIA  265 

had  walked  through  the  Champs  Elysees,  he  de- 
cided that  he  had  been  extremely  stupid  to  attach 
so  much  importance  to  it.  She  was  an  agreeable 
woman  towards  whom  his  feeling  was  a  friend- 
ship that  he  had  once  been  in  danger  of  exagge- 
rating; he  would  certainly  call  upon  her  at  the 
first  opportunity!  It  was  quite  possible  that  she 
might  be  able  to  tell  him  something  useful  too. 

Before  he  fulfilled  his  intention,  however,  an 
unlooked-for  development  occurred.  The  office 
of  the  agent  who  had  endeavoured  to  find  a  ten- 
ant for  him  was  on  the  road  to  the  station,  and 
a  day  or  two  later  the  man  ran  out  after  him 
and  asked  if  he  was  still  willing  to  let  No.  64. 
Kent  replied  shortly  that  the  opportunity  had 
presented  itself  too  late;  but  after  he  passed  on 
he  reflected.  The  house  was  wanted  at  once 
by  some  Americans  who  had  considered  it  pre- 
viously. They  now  made  an  offer  of  three  and 
a  half  guineas  a  week  for  a  period  of  six  or  twelve 
months.  It  appeared  to  Kent  that  he  had  been 
very  idiotic  in  dismissing  the  suggestion  off-hand. 
With  three  and  a  half  guineas  a  week,  less  the 
rent  and  taxes,  he  could  send  Cynthia  to  the 
I  country  for  a  few  months,  which  was  exactly 
\  what  she  stood  in  need  of;  and  though  he  could 
not  leave  London  himself,  he  could  shift  alone 


266  CYNTHIA 

somewhere  till  he  found  a  berth  and  she  rejoined 
him. 

Cynthia  and  he  discussed  the  idea  lengthily. 
She  was  opposed  to  the  separation,  but  she 
agreed  that  it  would  be  very  unwise  of  them  to 
refuse  to  let  the  house.  She  said  that  they  might 
all  live  together  in  apartments  on  the  money; 
fresh  air  and  peace  would  be  delicious  if  Kent 
were  with  her,  but  she  thought  that  she  would 
rather  stay  with  him  in  London  than  go  away 
by  herself. 

This  point  was  debated  a  good  deal.  There 
was  much  against  it.  It  was  absurd  to  deny 
that  their  anxieties,  and  the  restraint  imposed 
by  her  charge  of  the  baby,  had  told  upon  her 
health;  in  a  little  village  where  living  was  cheap 
she  would  not  only  recover  her  roses — as  soon  as 
he  earned  a  trifle  she  could  have  a  nursemaid. 
If  they  took  lodgings  together,  on  the  other  hand, 
they  must  be  reconciled  to  going  to  a  suburb — 
and  a  suburb  would  be  twice  as  expensive  as  the 
country.  By  himself,  Humphrey  could  get  a 
top  bedroom  in  Eloomsbury  for  the  same  sum 
that  he  now  spent  on  third-class  railway  tickets. 

The  logic  was  inexorable,  and  the  only  further 
question  to  decide  was  where  she  should  go. 
She  recollected  that  a  few  years  back  Miss  Wix 
had  been  sent  to  a  cottage  at  Monmouth  to  re- 


CYNTHIA  267 

coup  after  an  attack  of  influenza.  The  spinster 
had  spoken  very  highly  of  it  all — the  picturesque 
surroundings,  the  attention  she  had  received,  and 
the  cosy  accommodation.  If  Miss  Wix  praised 
it,  there  could  be  little  to  complain  of,  surely  ?  As 
to  the  terms,  Cynthia  knew  that  they  had  been 
ridiculously  low.  She  determined  to  write  to  her 
aunt  and  ask  if  she  remembered  the  address. 

On  second  thoughts,  though,  she  said  she  must 
ask  her  in  person.  She  had  not  paid  her  a  visit 
yet,  nor  had  Kent,  and  an  inquiry  by  post 
wouldn't  do  at  all.  They  went  the  following 
morning,  having  looked  in  on  the  agent,  and  in- 
formed him  that  they  were  prepared  to  accept 
the  offer,  and  to  give  up  possession  at  the  end 
of  the  week.  The  payments,  of  course,  were  to 
be  made  monthly  in  advance. 

Miss  Wix  lodged  in  Hunter  Street,  and  they 
found  that  in  her  improved  circumstances  she 
boasted  two  rooms.  The  parlour  that  she  had 
acquired  was  furnished  chiefly  with  a  large  round 
table,  a  number  of  Berlin-wool  antiinacassars, 
and  a  waxwork  bouquet  under  a  flyblown  shade ; 
and  at  the  table,  which  was  strewn  with  letters, 
the  spinster  had  been  sourly  engaged  upon  her 
"Advice"  for  Winsome  Words.  She  welcomed 
them  politely,  and  offered  to  have  some  tea  made 
if  they  would  like  it,  but,  as  it  was  one  o'clock, 


268  CYNTHIA 

they  said  that  they  weren't  thirsty.  The  request 
for  a  five-years-old  address  evidently  perturbed 
her  very  much;  but  after  a  rummage  behind  the 
folding  doors,  she  emerged  with  it,  and,  to 
mollify  her,  Cynthia  referred  again  to  her  jour- 
nalism and  reiterated  congratulations. 

"Mr.  Turquand  told  Humphrey,  or  we  should 
never  have  known,  Aunt  Emily.  Why  have  you 
kept  it  so  quiet  ?  We  were  delighted  by  the  news ; 
I  think  it  is  very  clever  of  you  indeed." 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  delighted  about.  I 
kept  it  quiet  because  I  did  not  wish  it  known — 
a  very  sufficient  reason.  Mr.  Turquand  is  much 
too  talkative." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  be  very  proud,"  said 
Kent — "a  lady  journalist!  May  I — am  I  al- 
lowed to  look  at  some  of  the  copy?" 

"As  I  can't  prevent  you  seeing  it  whenever 
you  like  to  spend  a  penny,"  said  Miss  Wix  bit- 
terly, "it  would  be  mere  mockery  to  prevent  you 


now." 


"You  underrate  your  public,"  he  murmured. 
"Winsome  Words  has  an  enormous  circulation, 
I  hear?" 

"Among  chits,"  exclaimed  the  spinster,  with 
sudden  wrath — "among  chits  and  fools.  Smack 
'em  and  put  'em  in  an  asylum!  If  you  want  to, 
then,  read  it  aloud.     Cynthia  shall  hear  what  I 


CYNTHIA  269 

have  to  do  in  order  to  live.  If  Louisa  weren't 
your  mother,  my  dear,  I'd  say  that  it's  a  greater 
shame  to  her  than  to  me.  I  would!  If  she 
weren't  your  mother,  that's  what  I'd  say." 

"Well,  let's  have  a  look,"  said  Humphrey 
quickly.  "Where  is  it?  Now,  then — what's 
this?  Oh,  Miserable  Maidiel  'Yours  is  indeed 
a  sad  story,  Miserable  Maidie,  because  you  seem 
to  have  no  one  to  turn  to  for  help  and  counsel. 
I  am  so  glad  you  resolved  to  come  to  your  Auntie 
Bluebell  and  tell  her  all  about  it.  So  you  and 
your  lover  have  parted  in  anger,  and  now  you 
are  heartbroken,  and  would  give  worlds  to  have 
him  back?  Ah,  my  dear,  I  can  feel  for  you!  It's 
the  old,  old  story '  " 

"That'll  do,"  snapped  Miss  Wix.  "  'The  old, 
old  story'?  My  word,  I'd  'old  story'  the  sickly 
little  imbecile  if  I  had  her  here!"  She  sat  bolt 
upright,  her  eyes  darting  daggers,  and  her  pink- 
tipped  nose  disdainful.  "Haven't  you  had 
enough  of  it  yet?    What  do  you  think  of  me?" 

"I  think  with  respect  of  anyone  who  can  earn 
a  salary,"  said  Kent.  "I  see  there's  one  to  Anx- 
ious Parent.  May  I  glance  at  your  advice  to 
Anxious  Parent?  'My  dear  friend,  were  you 
never  young  yourself?  And  didn't  you  love  your 
little  Ermyntrude's  papa?  If  so,  you  can  cer- 
tainly feel  for  two  young  things  who  rightly  be- 


270  CYNTHIA 

lieve  that  love  is  more  valuable  than  a  good  set- 
tlement. Let  them  wed  as  they  wish,  and  be 
thankful  that  Ermyntrude  is  going  to  have  a 
husband  against  whom  you  can  urge  no  other 
objection  than  that  he  is  unable  to  support  her.'  " 

"I'm  a  sensible  woman,  Cynthia,"  said  Miss 
Wix,  quivering;  "and  for  me  to  have  to  write 
that  incomes  don't  matter,  and  sign  myself 
'Auntie  Bluebell,'  is  heavy  at  your  mother's 
door." 

Her  mortification  was  so  evidently  genuine 
that  Kent  gave  her  back  her  copy,  with  replies 
to  A  Lover  of  "Winsome  Words'  and  Constant 
Daffodil  unread,  and  as  soon  as  was  practicable 
he  and  Cynthia  rose  and  made  their  adieux.  The 
apartments  in  the  cottage  proved  to  be  vacant, 
and  as  the  references  of  the  American  family 
were  satisfactory,  and  the  inventory  was  taken 
without  delay,  there  was  nothing  in  the  way  of 
the  migration  being  effected  by  the  suggested 
date.  Cynthia  had  proposed  that  her  husband 
should  try  to  obtain  his  old  bedroom  at  Tur- 
quand's,  where  he  could  have  the  run  of  a  sit- 
ting-room for  nothing,  and  this  idea  was  adopted 
with  the  approval  of  all  concerned.  Humphrey 
saw  her  off  at  Paddington,  and,  kissing  her  af- 
fectionately, told  her  to  "Make  haste  and  get 


CYNTHIA  OT 

strong."  And  the  close  of  a  week,  which  had 
opened  without  a  hint  of  such  developments,  saw 
Cynthia  living  with  her  baby  in  Monmouth,  and 
Kent  reinstalled  in  his  bachelor  quarters  in  Soho. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

It  was  very  jolly  to  be  back  with  Turquand. 
The  first  evening,  while  they  smoked  with  the 
enjoyable  consciousness  of  there  being  no  last 
train  to  catch,  was  quick  with  the  sentiment  of 
their  old  association.  And  after  a  letter  arrived 
from  Cynthia,  in  which  she  clapped  her  hands 
with  pleasure,  the  respite  was  complete.  Kent 
had  been  impatient  to  hear  how  the  place  struck 
her,  and  she  wrote  that  she  had  been  agreeably 
astonished.  The  cottage  was  roomier  than  she 
had  expected,  and  beautifully  located.  It  was 
furnished  very  simply,  of  course;  but  there  was 
a  charm  in  its  simplicity  and  freshness.  The 
landlady  was  a  rosy-cheeked  young  woman  who 
had  already  "fallen  in  love  with  Baby,"  and  over- 
whelmed her  with  attentions.  "If  you  do  not  see 
what  you  want,  please  step  inside  and  ask  for 
it."  Kent  smiled  at  that;  it  was  a  quotation 
from  one  of  the  Streatham  shop -windows.  Also 
there  was  a  quite  respectable  garden,  which  her 
bedroom  overlooked.  "There  are  fruit-trees  in 
it — not  my  bedroom,  the  garden — and  a  little, 

272 


CYNTHIA  273 

not  too  spidery,  bench,  where  I  know  I  shall  sit 
and  read  your  answer  when  it  comes."  She 
wrote  a  very  happy,  spontaneous  sort  of  letter, 
and  Kent's  spirits  rose  as  he  read  it.  There 
was  the  rustle  of  dimity  and  the  odour  of  lav- 
ender in  the  pages,  and  momentarily  he  pic- 
tured her  sitting  on  the  bench  under  the  fruit- 
trees,  and  thought  that  it  would  be  delightful  if 
he  could  run  down  one  day  and  surprise  her 
there. 

It  was  very  jolly  to  be  back  with  Turquand, 
though  the  satisfaction  was  perhaps  a  shade 
calmer  than,  during  the  first  year  of  his  married 
life,  he  had  fancied  that  it  would  be.  It  was 
convenient,  moreover,  to  be  in  town,  and  a  re- 
lief to  feel  that  the  unsettled  accounts  with  the 
tradespeople  round  Leamington  Road  were,  at 
any  rate,  not  waxing  mightier.  Nevertheless,  he 
missed  Cynthia  a  good  deal;  not  only  in  the 
daytime  when  he  was  alone,  but  even  in  minutes 
during  the  evening  when  he  was  in  Turquand's 
company.  It  was  curious  how  much  he  did  miss 
her — and  the  baby:  the  baby,  whose  newest  ac- 
complishment was  to  stroke  his  father's  cheek, 
and  murmur  "poor"  until  the  attention  was 
reciprocated,  when  he  bounded  violently  and 
grew  red  in  the  face  with  ridiculous  laughter. 
Soho,  too,  though  it  saved  him  train-fares,  soon 


274  CYNTHIA 

began  to  appear  as  distant  from  a  salary  as 
Streatham.  Turquand  remained  powerless  to 
put  any  work  in  his  way,  and,  despite  his  econ- 
omies and  the  cheapness  of  Monmouth,  Kent 
found  his  expenses  dismaying.  He  was  en- 
croaching on  the  money  laid  aside  for  the  land- 
lord and  the  rates,  and,  if  nothing  turned  up, 
there  would  speedily  be  trouble  again.  The 
butcher  who  had  supplied  No.  64  had  been  to 
the  agent  for  Mr.  Kent's  address,  and  he  pre- 
sented himself  and  his  bill  with  no  redundance 
of  euphemism.  When  another  advertisement  had 
been  inserted  ineffectually,  the  respite  was  over 
and  anxiety  returned. 

As  yet  Kent  had  not  called  on  Mrs.  Deane- 
Pitt,  and  on  the  afternoon  following  his  inter- 
view with  the  butcher  he  paid  his  visit  to  the 
lady.  He  was  very  frank  in  his  replies  to  her 
questions.  He  did  not  disguise  that  it  was  im- 
perative for  him  to  secure  an  appointment  at 
once,  and  when  she  agreed  with  him  that  it  was 
immensely  difficult,  instead  of  answering  that  it 
was  likely  some  opening  might  be  mentioned  to 
her,  his  face  fell.  He  felt  that  it  behoved  him 
to  deprecate  his  confidences. 

"You  must  forgive  my  boring  you  about  my 
affairs,''  he  said.  "And  what  are  you  doing? 
Are  you  at  work  on  another  book  now?" 


CYNTHIA  275 

"I've  a  serial  running  in  Fashion"  she  said; 
"and  they  print  such  ghastly  long  instalments 
that  it  takes  me  all  my  time  to  keep  pace  with 
them.  You  haven't  bored  me  at  all.  A  post 
on  a  paper  is  a  thing  you  may  have  to  wait  a 
long  time  for,  I'm  afraid.  You  see,  you  aren't  a 
journalist  really,  are  you?    You're  a  novelist." 

"I'm  nothing,"  said  Kent,  with  a  dreary  laugh. 
"For  that  matter,  I  wouldn't  care  if  it  weren't 
on  a  paper.  I'd  jump  at  anything — a  secretary- 
ship for  preference." 

"Secretaryships  want  personal  introductions; 
they  aren't  got  through  advertisements."  She 
hesitated.  "I  can  tell  you  how  you  might  make 
some  money,  if  you'd  like  to  do  it,"  she  added 
tentatively.  "It's  between  ourselves — if  it  doesn't 
suit  you,  you'll  be  discreet?" 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Kent,  with  surprise. 
"But  I  can  promise  you  in  advance  that  any 
means  of  making  some  money  will  suit  me  just 
now.    What  are  you  going  to  say?" 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  with  a  slow  smile. 

"How  would  you  like  to  write  a  novel  for  me?" 
she  asked. 

Instantaneously  he  did  not  grasp  her  mean- 
ing. 

"How?"  he  exclaimed.  "Do  you  mean  you 
are  offering  to  collaborate  with  me?" 


276  CYNTHIA 

"I  can't  do  that,"  she  said  quickly.  "I'm  sure 
you  know  I  should  be  delighted,  but  I  shouldn't 
get  the  same  terms  if  I  did,  and  I  haven't  the 
time,  either.  That's  just  it!  I'm  obliged  to  re- 
fuse work  because  I  haven't  time  to  undertake  it. 
No,  but  it  might  be  a  partnership  as  far  as  the 
payment  goes.  If  you  care  to  write  a  novel,  I 
can  place  it  under  my  own  name,  and  you  can 
have — well,  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  almost 
as  soon  as  you  give  it  to  me!  I  can  guarantee 
that.  You  can  have  a  couple  of  hundred  a  week 
or  two  after  it's  finished,  whether  I  sell  serial 
rights  or  not." 

She  took  a  cigarette  out  of  a  box  on  a  table 
near  her  and  lit  it,  a  shade  nervously.  Kent  sat 
pale  and  disturbed.  That  such  things  were  done, 
at  all  events  in  France,  he  knew,  but  her  pro- 
posal startled  him  more  than  he  could  say,  or 
than  he  wished  to  say.  His  primary,emotion  was 
astonishment  that  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  had  had  the 
courage  to  place  her  literary  reputation  in  his 
hands ;  and  then,  as  he  reflected,  an  awful  horror 
seized  him  at  the  thought  of  a  year  of  his  toil, 
of  effort  and  accomplishment,  going  out  for  re- 
view with  another  person's  name  on  it.  The 
pause  lasted  some  time. 

"I  don't  much  fancy  the  idea,"  he  said  at  last 


CYNTHIA  OT 

slowly,  * 'thanks.  And  it  wouldn't  assist  me.  I 
want  money  now,  not  a  year  hence." 

"A  year  hence!"  she  murmured.  "A  year 
hence  would  be  no  use  to  me.  But  you  could  do 
it  in  a  month !  Pray  don't  mistake  me.  I'm  not 
anxious  to  get  any  kudos  at  your  expense,  I  don't 
want  you  to  do  the  kind  of  thing  that  I  suppose 
you  have  done  in  this  novel  of  yours  that's  mak- 
ing the  round  now;  I  don't  want  introspection 
and  construction,  and  all  that.  All  I  want  is 
to  buy  shoes  for  my  poor  little  children,  and  what 
I  suggested  was  that  you  should  knock  off  a 
story  at  your  top  speed.  I  don't  care  a  pin  what 
it's  like;  only  turn  me  out  a  hundred  thousand 
words !" 

"A  hundred  thousand  words,"  cried  Kent,  "in 
a  month  ?  You  might  as  well  suggest  my  carry- 
ing off  one  of  the  lions  out  of  Trafalgar  Square ! 
The  Eye  of  the  Beholder  isn't  a  hundred  thou- 
sand words,  and  I  worked  at  it  day  and  night, 
and  then  it  took  me  a  year!  Besides,  that's  an- 
other thing;  it  is  going  the  round — the  story 
.  mightn't  be  any  use  to  you  if  I  did  it." 

"I  can  place  it,"  said  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt,  w^h 
emphasis.  "Don't  concern  yourself  about  its 
fate,  my  friend ;  your  responsibility  will  be 
limited  to  writing  it.  Your  book  took  a  year? 
I've  no  doubt  you  considered,  and  corrected,  and 


278  CYNTHIA 

spent  an  afternoon  polishing  a  paragraph.  Sup- 
posing you  take  six  or  seven  weeks,  then?  Do 
you  mean  to  say  you  couldn't  write  two  thousand 
words  a  day?" 

"No,  I  don't  believe  I  could — not  if  you  of- 
fered me  the  Mint!"  said  Kent. 

"But  you  can  put  down  the  first  words  that 
come  into  your  head !  Any  thing  will  do.  Natur- 
ally, it  would  be  no  use  to  me  if  you  wrote 
'Mother  Hubbard  went  to  the  cupboard'  over  all 
the  pages,  but  any  trivial  thing  in  the  shape  of  a 
story,  I  assure  you,  I  can  arrange  for  at  once.  I 
Indeed,  it  is  practically  arranged  for;  all  that 
remains  is  for  you  to  give  it  to  me." 

She  puffed  her  cigarette  silently,  and  the  | 
young  man  mused.  The  plan  was  repugnant  to  ' 
him,  but  if,  as  she  said,  anything  would  do — well, 
perhaps  he  could  manage  it  in  the  time;  he  did 
not  know.  Two  hundred  pounds  would  certainly 
be  salvation,  and,  for  seven  weeks'  work,  a  mag- 
nificent reward. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  she  continued,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments: "if  you  liked  to  do  me  a  short  story  or 
two  now  and  again,  we  should  have  money  from 
those  in  the  meanwhile.  I  don't  want  to  per- 
suade you  against  your  convictions,  if  you  have 
any,  but  our  business  together  would  pay  you 
better  than  an  appointment,  even  if  you  found  ; 


CYNTHIA  279 

one;  and — though  that's  nothing  to  do  with  it — 
it  would  be  a  tremendous  benefit  to  me  as  well. 
See,  with  our  two  pens  we  can  produce  double 
the  work,  and  we  share  the  advantage  of  the 
popularity  I've  gained." 

"Oh,  I  quite  appreciate  the  pecuniary  pull," 
he  answered.  "I  could  hardly  write  short  stories 
while  I  was  fagging  at  a  novel,  though." 

"I  think  myself  one  goes  back  to  the  novel  all 
the  fresher  for  the  break,"  she  said;  "but,  of 
course,  everybody  has  his  own  system  of  work- 
ing. Would  you  care  to  write  me  a  couple  of 
three-thousand-word  stories  first?  We  can  dis- 
cuss the  book  later.  If  you  let  me  have  two 
stories  to-morrow  night,  I  could  give  you  five 
guineas  each  for  them  on  Saturday." 

"To-morrow  is  out  of  the  question.  You  don't 
realise  how  slowly  I  write,  and  I  haven't  the 
motives." 

"Say  the  next  day — say  by  Thursday.  But  it 
must  be  by  then.  The  man  goes  out  of  town  on 
Saturday,  and  I  want  him  to  read  them  before 
he  goes.  If  I  can  have  the  manuscripts  on  Thurs- 
day, you  can  have  ten  guineas  Saturday  night." 

"It's  a  very  good  offer,"  said  Kent.  "You 
must  get  a  royal  rate." 

"Well,  I  couldn't  always  offer  you  so  much, 
but,  then,  I  don't  often  want  them  quite  so  long. 


280  CYNTHIA 

Two,  of  three  thousand  words,  and  to  end  hap- 
pily, for  choice.  Not  too  strong.  If  they  will 
illustrate  well,  all  the  better,  but  you  needn't 
give  yourself  any  trouble  on  that  score — it's  the 
artist's  affair." 

"I'll  do  them,"  said  Humphrey.  "I  suppose 
I  must  make  an  attempt  to  imitate  your  style?" 

"It  isn't  necessary.  I  generally  begin  with  a 
very  short  sentence,  like  'It  was  noon,'  or  'It 
rained';  you  might  do  that;  but  I  really  don't 
know  that  it  matters.  .  .  .  Mr.  Kent " 

"Yes?"  he  said. 

"This  is  a  confidential  matter;  I  rely  on  your 
honour  not  to  mention  it  to  a  living  soul,  of 
course!  I  don't  know  how  much  married  you 
are,  but  I  depend  on  you  not  to  tell  your  wife. 
It  would  ruin  me  if  it  came  out." 

He  assured  her  that  she  might  trust  him,  and 
having  pledged  himself  to  the  lighter  task,  he 
resolved  on  his  way  home  that  he  would  under- 
take the  heavier,  too.  She  did  not  want  a  year 
of  his  best  work — he  doubted  if  he  could  con- 
template that,  even  if  refusal  meant  Strawberry 
Hill  for  Cynthia  and  the  baby,  and  the  work- 
house for  himself — she  asked  only  a  few  weeks 
of  his  worst.  Money  was  indispensable ;  he  must 
make  it  in  whatever  way  he  could.  A  ghost, 
eh?    He  was  rising  finely  in  the  career  of  litera- 


CYNTHIA  281 

ture.  His  first  novel  had  received  what  was 
almost  the  highest  possible  cachet;  his  second 
was  "declined  with  thanks";  and  now  no  mode 
of  livelihood  was  left  him  but  to  be  a  ghost.  His 
throat  was  tight  with  shame;  there  were  tears 
in  it. 

That  passed.    He  reflected  that  with  two  hun- 
dred pounds  in  his  pocket  he  would  be  able  to 
sit  down  to  another  novel  on  his  own  account; 
he  might  be  luckier  with  that  than  with  The  Eye 
of  the  Beholder,    What  were  a  few  weeks  com- 
pared with  two  hundred  pounds?    Mrs.  Deane- 
Pitt  must  have  thought  him  a  fool  to  hesitate. 
Practical  herself,  indeed !  But — well,  for  all  that, 
it  was  rather  fascinating  to  feel  that  so  intimate 
a  confidence  was  going  to  subsist  between  them! 
'■>  She  had  been  a  trifle  nervous,  too,  as  she  took 
I  that  cigarette;  he  hoped  he  hadn't  been  a  prig. 
She  was  very  nice ;  it  distressed  him  to  think  that 
she  had  been  afraid  of  him  even  for  a  second. 
Two  hundred  pounds?    He  wondered  what  share 
I  it  was — half,  or  more  than  half,  or  less.    With  a 
j  woman,  however,  he  could  not  go  into  that.    His 
i  admission  that  five  guineas  seemed  a  lot  to  him 
for  a  three-thousand-word  story  had  probably 
been  injudicious — and  it  must  have  made  him 
sound  very  ignorant  besides.    Well,  that  couldn't 
be  helped.    And  he  would  be  glad  if  the  partner- 


282  CYNTHIA 

ship  paid  her  well;  whatever  terms  she  obtained, 
she  must  be  perfectly  aware  that  her  offer  was 
a  liberal  one  to  a  man  in  his  position,  and  he 
was  grateful  to  her.  He  felt  it  again — she  had 
been  "nice."  He  began  to  revolve  a  plot  for  the 
first  of  the  stories,  and  by  the  time  he  reached 
home  he  had  vaguely  thought  of  one.  When 
Turquand  came  in,  it  had  shaped.  Saying  that 
he  had  work  to  do,  Kent  left  him,  and  went  up- 
stairs. He  drew  a  chair  to  the  table,  and  sat 
down  and  wrote — slowly,  painfully.  The  man 
was  an  artist,  and  he  could  not  help  the  care  he 
took.  He  sneered  at  himself  for  it.  Mrs.  Deane- 
Pitt  had  impressed  on  him  that  anything  would 
do,  and  here  he  was  meditating  and  revising  as 
if  it  were  a  story  to  submit  to  the  most  exclusive 
of  the  magazines  in  his  own  name.  He  dashed 
his  pen  in  the  ink,  and  threw  a  paragraph  on  the 
paper.  But  he  could  not  go  on.  His  conscious- 
ness of  that  slip-shod  paragraph  higher  up 
clogged  his  invention,  so  that  he  had  to  go  back 
to  it  and  put  it  right.  Presently  a  touch  of  cheer- 
fulness crept  into  his  mood.  That  was  well  said. 
Yes,  she  would  praise  that!  The  pride  of  au- 
thorship possessed  him;  he  wrote  with  pleasure; 
and  at  two  o'clock,  when  a  third  of  the  tale  was 
achieved,  he  went  to  bed  feeling  exhilarated. 
It  was  no  easy  duty  to  him  to  complete  both 


CYNTHIA  28S 

stories  by  Thursday  morning,  and,  confronted 
by  the  necessity  for  making  Turquand  a  further 
excuse  for  retirement,  he  almost  wished  now 
that  he  were  living  alone.  He  was  vastly  re- 
lieved that  the  other  accepted  his  allusions  to 
"something  that  would  keep  him  busy  for  a 
month  or  so"  with  no  apparent  perception  of  a 
mystery.  After  the  first  inevitable  question  was 
shirked,  the  journalist  put  no  more,  and  behaved 
as  if  the  explanation  had  been  explicit.  Neither 
Kent's  friendship,  nor  his  admiration  for  him, 
had  ever  been  so  warm,  as  while  he  decided  that 
Turquand's  experience  must  lead  him  to  sus- 
pect something  like  the  truth  and  enabled  him 
to  conceal  the  suspicion  under  his  normal  de- 
meanour. 

With  Cynthia  the  ghost  was  less  fortunate, 
though  he  barely  divined  it  by  her  answer.  He 
told  her  as  much  as  he  was  free  to  tell :  he  wrote 
that  he  had  work  on  hand  at  last,  and  that  they 
would  have  ten  guineas  on  Saturday,  and  a  large 
sum  in  a  couple  of  months.  Where  the  stuff 
would  appear,  he  could  not  say  without  a  false- 
hood, and  he  trusted  she  would  not  be  curious 
on  the  point.  The  reservation  that  he  regretted 
gave  to  his  tone  an  aloofness  that  he  did  not 
design;  Cynthia  refrained  from  inquiring,  but 
she  was  hurt.     She  felt  that  he  might  have  im- 


284  CYNTHIA 

parted  such  intelligence  a  little  more  enthu- 
siastically, at  a  little  greater  length.  Did  he 
suppose  that  her  interest  was  limited  to  the  pay- 
ment? Was  she  only  held  sympathetic  enough 
to  mind  the  baby  when  they  were  obliged  to  dis- 
charge the  nurse?  Now  that  he  returned  to 
work,  her  husband  was  going  to  treat  her  as  a 
child  again,  just  as  he  had  done  when  he  was 
engaged  on  his  book !  She  did  not  perceive  that, 
while  he  had  been  writing  the  book,  she  had  oc- 
cupied the  position  most  natural  to  her;  she  did 
not  detect  that  the  attitude  in  which  she  recalled 
it  was  a  new  one.  It  was,  however,  the  attitude 
of  a  woman.  The  hidden  chagrin  and  urbanity 
of  her  reply  was  a  woman's.  These  things  were 
part  of  a  development  of  which,  while  they  had 
remained  together,  neither  she  nor  the  man  who 
missed  her  had  been  acutely  aware. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  paid  Kent  the  ten  guineas 
a  few  days  after  the  Saturday  on  which  she  had 
expected  to  receive  the  Editor's  cheque,  and  she 
made  no  secret  of  being  delighted  with  the  two 
tales.  They  were  based  upon  rather  original 
ideas,  and  after  she  had  had  them  typewritten, 
and  read  them,  she  talked  to  him  about  them  with 
the  frankest  appreciation  possible.  Kent  almost 
lost  sight  of  his  regret  that  they  weren't  to  appear 
under  his  own  name,  as  the  lady  expressed  her 
approval,  and  declared  enthusiastically  that  to 
call  them  "excellent"  was  to  say  too  little.  He 
found  it  very  stimulating  to  hear  his  work  praised 
by  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt,  especially  as  it  was  work 
done  for  her.  Although  she  had  professed  to  be 
careless  of  the  quality,  it  was  not  to  be  supposed 
that  she  would  not  rather  sign  good  stuff  than 
bad,  and  the  warmth  and  gaiety  of  her  comments 
took  the  sting  from  the  association  and  lent  it 
a  charm. 

When  he  began  her  novel,  it  was  with  the  dis- 
comfiting consciousness  that  the  breakneck  speed 
imposed  on  him  would  prevent  the  labourer  being 

285 


286  CYMTHIA 

worthy  of  his  hire.  He  was  too  nurried  to  be  able 
to  frame  a  scenario,  and  neither  he  nor  the  lady 
who  was  to  figure  as  the  author  had  more  than 
a  hazy  idea  of  what  the  book  was  going  to  be 
about.  He  had  mentally  sworn  to  keep  his  crit- 
ical faculty  in  check  and  to  produce  a  chapter  of 
two  thousand  words  every  day — if  he  did  not 
bind  himself  to  the  accomplishment  of  a  fixed  in- 
stalment daily,  the  book  would  not  be  finished  in 
double  the  time  at  his  disposal!  And  he  rose  at 
seven,  and  worked  till  about  midnight,  on  the  day 
on  which  Chapter  I.  was  done.  He  had  corrected 
in  a  fashion  as  he  composed,  and  he  did  not  read 
it  through  when  he  put  down  his  pen — that  would 
be  too  disheartening.  He  remembered  the  open- 
ing chapter  of  The  Eye  of  the  Beholder,  and,  con- 
trasted with  the  remembrance,  these  pages  that 
he  had  perpetrated  appeared  to  him  puerile  and 
painful.  He  folded  them  up,  and  posted  them  to 
Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  with  a  note  before  he  slept. 

"Whether  you  will  want  the  novel  after  you 
have  seen  this,  I  don't  know,"  he  wrote;  "I  am 
sending  it  to  you  to  ascertain.  It  is  a  specimen 
of  the  rubbish  the  thing  will  be  if  I  have  to  turn 
it  out  at  such  a  rate.  I  will  call,  on  the  chance 
of  your  being  in,  to-morrow  afternoon." 

He  found  her  at  home,  and  she  welcomed  him 
with  a  humorous  smile. 


CYNTHIA  287 

"You  have  read  it?"  asked  Kent,  with  mis- 
giving. 

"Yes;  I've  read  it,"  she  said.  "Violet!  Pray 
don't  look  so  frightened  of  me!" 

"Why  Violet'?    Well?" 

"The  type  of  modesty.  Well,  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  it?    It'll  do  all  right." 

Kent  drew  a  breath. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  I'm  bound  to 
confess  I  thought  it  very  slovenly  myself." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  she  said.  "Have  you  gone 
on  with  it?" 

"No ;  I  waited  for  your  verdict.  I  thought  you 
might  call  me  names  and  cry  off.  I'll  go  on  with 
it  now,  though,  like  steam." 

"Do!  I  suppose  you  couldn't  manage  a  five- 
thousand-word  story  for  me  this  week,  could  you? 
It  would  be  good  business." 

He  stared  ruefully. 

"No,  indeed!  Not  if  I'm  to  write  a  chapter 
a  day." 

"Oh,  the  chapter  a  day,  please !  Get  the  novel 
done  at  the  earliest  moment  possible;  that's  the 
chief  thing.  You  will,  won't  you?  I  should  be  so 
grateful  to  you  if  you  finished  it  in  six  weeks." 

"I  promise  to  finish  it  as  quickly  as  I  can,"  he 
said.  "Even  if  I  didn't  care  to  serve  you,  I 
should  do  that,  for  my  own  sake.  When  I  get  two 


288  CYNTHIA 

hundred  pounds,  I  shall  be  at  the  end  of  my 
troubles." 

"Happy  man!"  said  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt.  "Would 
that  two  hundred  pounds  would  see  the  end  of 
mine!  And  as  you  do  want  to  serve  me,  you'll 
do  it  even  more  quickly  than  you  can?" 

"Or  try." 

"That's  very  nice  of  you.  I  wonder  how  true 
it  is.  One  of  the  answers  one  has  to  make,  isn't 
it?  Then  when  you're  behind  with  the  work, 
and  your  wife  wants  to  be  taken  out  somewhere, 
you'll  nobly  remember  there's  a  miserable  woman 
in  Victoria  Street  depending  on  you  and  per- 
suade Mrs.  Kent  to  go  with  a  sister,  or  a  cousin, 
or  an  aunt?  You'll  say  to  yourself  'Excelsior!' 
and  other  improving  mottoes,  meaning  'Loyalty 
forbids'?" 

"I'll  say  'Loyalty  forbids'  when  I  want  to  go 
out  by  myself;  my  wife's  in  the  country." 

"Tant  mieux!  if  it  isn't  shocking,"  she  laughed. 
"I'm  afraid  a  woman  on  the  spot  would  prove 
too  strong  for  me.  Am  I  grossly  selfish?  Poor 
boy  who  has  got  no  wife !" 

She  looked  at  him  as  she  had  looked  across  the 
supper-table  in  the  avenue  Wagram.  He  could 
not  think  of  anything  to  say,  of  a  nature  that 
commended  itself  to  him;  and  he  exclaimed  ab- 
ruptly : 


CYNTHIA  289 

"Oh,  you  may  rely  on  me,  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt; 
I'll  never  go  anywhere;  I'll  be  a  hermit!  By  the 
way,  you  don't  know  I'm  in  Soho  now.  Perhaps 
I'd  better  give  you  the  address?" 

"Certainly,"  she  said;  "I  may  want  to  write  to 
you.  The  Hermit  of  Soho!  Well,  when  you've 
been  good  and  done  penance  thoroughly,  hermit, 
you  may  come  and  see  me  sometimes;  I'll  allow 
you  that  distraction.  Come  in  whenever  you 
like,  and  you  can  tell  me  how  the  thing  is  going. 
Any  afternoon  you  please  at  this  time.  And 
don't  come  in  trembling  at  me  any  more ;  I  don't 
expect  you  to  write  me  a  masterpiece  in  six  weeks, 
poor  boy." 

Kent  kept  his  word  to  her  doggedly,  and,  al- 
though he  continued  to  rise  early,  he  was  seldom 
free  to  join  Turquand  until  about  nine  o'clock 
in  the  evening.  When  the  chapter  was  done,  he 
wrould  go  downstairs,  and  light  another  pipe,  and 
Turquand  would  put  away  his  book  or  his  paper 
without  any  indication  of  curiosity.  With  a  wom- 
an such  a  state  of  things  would  have  been  im- 
possible; but  Turquand's  manner  was  so  un- 
forced that  by  degrees  Kent  came  to  own  that 
he  was  tired,  or  to  make  some  other  allusion  to 
his  labour  quite  freely.  And  not  once  did  the 
other  say  to  him,  "Well,  but  what  is  it  you're 
doing?"    On  the  days  that  he  called  on  Mrs. 


290  CYNTHIA 

Deane-Pitt,  it  was  later  still  before  he  could  loll 
in  the  parlour;  the  temptation  to  go  to  her,  how- 
Jcver,  was  more  than  he  could  resist.  He  realised 
Very  soon  that  she  had  an  attraction  for  him 
which  was  not  in  the  least  like  friendship,  and 
which  he  could  never  term  "friendship"  any  more. 
In  moments,  as  he  sat  writing  in  his  shabby  bed- 
room under  the  tiles,  the  thought  of  her  would 
suddenly  creep  into  him,  and  beat  in  his  pulses 
till  he  was  assailed  by  a  furious  longing  to  be  in 
her  presence;  and  though  he  often  denied  the 
longing,  he  frequently  obeyed  it.  He  would  throw 
down  his  pen,  and  change  his  coat,  and  leave  the 
house  impetuously,  seeing  her,  in  fancy,  all  the 
way  to  the  flat.  During  a  fortnight  or  so,  he 
sought  some  reason  for  the  visit.  Would  she  like 
the  heroine  to  go  on  the  stage  when  her  husband 
lost  his  money?  Did  she  think  it  would  be  a  good 
idea  to  kill  the  husband,  and  introduce  a  new 
character  to  reinstate  the  girl  in  luxury?  But 
presently  such  excuses  were  abandoned.  For 
one  thing,  Sirs.  Deane-Pitt  was  too  much  oc- 
cupied with  her  serial  to  accord  any  serious  con- 
sideration to  his  work ;  and  for  another,  she  wel- 
comed him  as  a  matter  of  course.  It  was  agree- 
able to  her  to  see  this  man  who  was  in  love  with 
her,  and  whom  she  liked,  looking  at  her  with  eyes 
that  betrayed  what  he  would  not  allow  his  tongue 


CYNTHIA  291 

to  acknowledge.  "Oh,  I'm  glad,"  she  would  say, 
"I  was  hoping  it  was  you.  Sit  down  and  make 
yourself  comfortable — no,  bring  me  that  cushion 
first — and  talk  to  me,  and  be  amusing."  Some- 
times she  received  him  radiantly,  sometimes  wea- 
rily. On  one  afternoon  she  declared  she  was  in  the 
best  of  spirits,  and  had  just  been  wishing  for 
someone  to  bear  her  company;  on  the  next  she 
sighed  that  she  was  worried  to  death,  and  that 
he  had  only  arrived  in  time  to  save  her  from  ex- 
tinction. "Bills,"  she  would  yawn,  when  he  ques- 
tioned her,  "bills!  A  dressmaker,  a  schoolmis- 
tress— I  forget  which.  Some  wretch  threatens 
something,  I  know.  Don't  look  so  concerned;  I 
shall  survive.  Cheer  me  up."  Then  the  servant 
would  enter  with  the  tea-things,  and  afterwards, 
in  the  cool  shadows  of  the  drawing-room,  through 
which  the  perfume  of  the  heliotrope  that  grew  in 
a  huge  bowl  under  the  crimson  lamp  floated  de- 
liciously,  there  would  be  cigarettes,  and  a  half- 
hour  that  he  found  exquisite  in  its  air  of  intimate 
familiarity.  Though  no  verbal  admission  was  ever 
made,  there  were  seconds  in  which  Kent's  voice, 
as  plainly  as  his  face,  told  her  what  he  felt  for  her, 
and  seconds  in  which  the  tones  of  the  woman  said, 
"I'm  quite  conscious  of  the  effect  I  have  on  you; 
we  both  understand,  of  course."  Occasionally  he 
had  a  glimpse  of  her  children,  and  once  when  he 


292  CYNTHIA 

was  there,  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  took  the  boy  on  her 
lap,  among  the  folds  of  her  elaborate  tea-gown, 
and  fondled  him.  "Do  you  think  I  make  a  nice 
mother,  Mr.  Kent?"  she  said,  flashing  a  glance. 
"This  monkey  doesn't  appreciate  his  privileges." 
She  kissed  the  child  three  times,  and  in  the  gaze 
that  she  lifted  over  his  curly  head  there  was,  for 
an  instant,  provocation  that  shook  the  man. 

But  such  incidents  as  this  were  exceptional, 
and,  as  a  rule,  Kent  could  not  have  cited  a  single 
instance  of  coquetry  when  he  took  his  leave  and 
returned  to  the  attic.  Nor  did  the  passion  she 
had  aroused  in  him  militate  against  the  success  of 
his  enterprise,  taking  "success"  to  mean  its  com- 
pletion by  the  given  date.  Perhaps  he  was  more 
industrious,  even,  in  the  perception  that  she  was 
always  warmest  when  he  had  done  the  most.  "I 
finished  the  thirtieth  chapter  last  night!"  Then 
she  would  be  delightful,  and  if  she  had  appeared 
harassed  at  all,  her  languor  would  speedily  give 
place  to  gaiety.  The  tremulous  afternoons  were 
never  so  quick  with  the  sense  of  alliance,  so  en- 
tirely fascinating  to  him,  as  when  he  was  able  to 
surprise  her  by  some  such  report.  The  desire  to 
please  the  woman  became  fully  as  strong  a  stim- 
ulus to  the  ghost  as  his  eagerness  to  receive  the 
money  that  would  permit  him  to  begin  a  third 
novel  for  himself.    The  two  short  stories  had  been 


CYNTHIA  293 

published  now,  in  a  periodical  in  which  Kent 
would  have  been  very  proud  to  see  his  own  name, 
and  though  he  did  not  grudge  them  to  her,  he 
could  not  help  feeling,  as  he  read  them,  that  they 
were  better  than  he  had  known  and  that  it  would 
be  eminently  satisfactory  to  resume  legitimate 
work. 

After  the  fortieth  chapter  was  scrawled,  con- 
clusion was  in  sight,  and  though  he  could  not 
quite  sustain  his  earlier  pace,  he  never  turned  out 
less  than  one  thousand  words  a  day.  Had  any- 
body told  him,  a  couple  of  months  before,  that 
he  could  do  even  this,  he  would  have  ridiculed 
the  statement,  but  the  consciousness  that  accept- 
ance was  certain  had  been  very  fortifying.  He 
scarcely  allowed  himself  leisure  to  eat  after  pass- 
ing the  fortieth  chapter.  The  stuff  was  undeni- 
ably poor,  though  it  was  not  so  jejune  as  it 
seemed  to  Kent.  The  worst  part  was  the  con- 
struction, for,  ignorant  what  the  next  develop- 
ment was  to  be,  he  was  often  forced  to  write 
sheets  of  intermediate  and  motiveless  dialogue 
until  an  idea  presented  itself;  but  for  the  style, 
hasty  as  it  was,  there  was  still  something  to  be 
said.  Instinctively  Kent  gave  to  a  commonplace 
redundancy  a  literary  twist,  and  the  writing  had 
almost  invariably  a  veneer,  though  the  matter 
written  might  be  of  no  account. 


294  CYNTHIA 

During  the  final  week  he  did  not  go  to  Victoria 
Street  at  all.  He  could  not  suppress  the  artist 
in  him  wholly,  and  for  the  climax  he  meant  to  do 
his  utmost.  It  was  a  sop  to  his  conscience — 
he  could  remember  the  last  chapter  and  forget 
the  rest.  He  had  sent  or  taken  the  manuscript 
to  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  piece  by  piece,  and  he  took 
her  the  last  of  it  on  the  evening  that  he  wrote 
"The  End."  A  telegram  had  told  her  to  expect 
him.  He  had  written  the  book  in  seven  weeks; 
but  he  felt  as  exhausted  as  if  he  had  built  a  house 
in  the  time,  brick  by  brick,  with  his  own  hands. 
She  read  the  pages  that  he  had  brought,  while 
he  watched  her  from  an  arm-chair ;  and,  with  the 
candour  which  was  so  striking  a  feature  in  such 
an  association,  she  cried  that  the  scene  was  ad- 
mirable— that  she  could  not  have  done  it  half  so 
well.  Kent's  weariness  faded  from  him  as  they 
talked,  and  momentarily  he  regretted  that  he 
had  not  been  able  to  write  a  book  for  her  equal 
to  The  Eye  of  the  Beholder. 

With  regard  to  her  negotiations,  however, 
she  was  not  so  outspoken — it  was  only  by  chance 
that  Kent  had  seen  the  two  short  stories;  she  had 
not  even  told  him  for  what  paper  they  were  in- 
tended. There  was  some  delay  in  paying  the 
two  hundred  pounds,  and  her  explanations  were 
vague  and  various.    The  partner  with  whom  she 


CYNTHIA  295 

always  dealt  was  on  the  Continent ;  she  would  not 
sign  an  agreement  before  American  copyright 
was  arranged;  she  generally  ran  her  stories  as 
serials  before  they  were  issued  in  book-form  and 
it  was  not  decided  what  she  was  going  to  do — 
half  a  dozen  reasons  f orpostponement  were  forth- 
coming. She  gave  him  his  share  at  last,  though, 
and  very  cordially,  and  he  felt  some  embarrass- 
ment in  taking  her  cheque  when  the  moment  ar- 
rived, its  being  his  earliest  experience  of  business 
with  a  woman.  If  he  had  had  others,  he  would 
have  appreciated  her  action  in  paying  him  in  full, 
and  only  a  little  late,  more  keenly  than  he  did, 
though  he  was  far  from  ungrateful  to  her  as  it 
was. 

He  put  the  cheque  in  his  pocket  as  carelessly  as 
he  could  manage,  and  said: 

"Well,  you've  done  me  a  tremendous  service, 
Mrs.  Deane-Pitt,  and,  by  Jove!  I  thank  you  for 
it — heartily." 

"Oh,  rubbish!"  she  replied;  "the  work's  been 
as  useful  to  me  as  to  you;  you've  nothing  to 
thank  me  for." 

"It  makes  more  difference  to  me,"  said  Kent; 
"it  means — you  hardly  know  what  it  means!  I 
needn't  look  out  for  a  berth  now ;  I  can  sit  down 
to  another  novel.    I  owe  you  that." 

"If  you  like  to  think  so "    She  smiled,  but 


296  CYNTHIA 

her  tone  was  constrained.  "I  should  be  glad  if 
somebody  owed  me  something;  I'm  more  used  to 
its  being  the  other  way  round." 

"I  feel  a  Croesus.  We  ought  to  celebrate  this 
accession  to  wealth;  it  demands  a  festivity!  If 
I  get  seats  for  a  theatre,  will  you  go  to  dinner 
with  me  somewhere  to-morrow  night  ?  What  shall 
we  go  to  see?    Have  you  been  to  Daly's  yet?" 

"I'm  engaged  to-morrow  night,  and  the  next." 

"To-night,  then?" 

"This  evening  I  am  dining  out;  there's  the 
card  on  my  desk." 

''What  a  fashionable  person  you  are!"  ex* 
claimed  Kent,  rather  enviously.  "Would  Friday 
evening  suit  you  ?" 

"Yes,  I'm  free  on  Friday;  but  a  theatre  is  aw- 
fully stifling  this  weather,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  we  needn't  go  to  a  theatre,"  he  said; 
"we  might  dine  at  Richmond.  Will  you  drive 
down  to  Richmond,  and  have  dinner  at  the  Star 
and  Garter  on  Friday?" 

Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  promised  that  she  would,  but 
the  animation  with  which  she  had  given  him  the 
cheque  had  deserted  her ;  and  after  a  minute,  she 
said: 

"I  suppose  your  starting  another  novel  for 
yourself  needn't  stand  in  the  way  of  our  business 


CYNTHIA  297 

together?  There  are  several  things  I  can  offer 
you,  if  you  care  to  do  them." 

"Oh,  thanks,"  said  Kent;  "but  I'm  afraid  I'd 
better  stick  to  the  novel.  I  want  to  do  all  I  can 
with  it,  you  see." 

"L'un  n'empeche  pas  l'autre — a  short  story 
now  and  then  won't  interfere  with  it,  surely?  I 
can  place  a  ten-thousand-word  story  at  once  if 
you  like  to  write  it  for  me." 

The  refusal  was  difficult,  and  he  hesitated  how 
to  express  himself.  He  had  never  contemplated 
the  association  as  a  permanent  one,  and  now  that 
an  alternative  was  open  to  him,  its  indignity 
looked  doubly  repellant.  He  was  surprised  that 
Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  expected  it  to  continue.  Could- 
n't she  understand  that  he  felt  it  a  humiliation — 
that  he  had  adopted  the  course  merely  as  a  des- 
perate measure  in  a  desperate  case?  He  had 
taken  her  comprehension  for  granted. 

"I'd  rather  not,  if  you  don't  mind,"  he  said 
awkwardly.  "It  would  take  me  off  my  own  work 
more  than  you  can  imagine.  My  motive  for 
doing  this  was  to  make  it  possible  for  me  to  de- 
vote myself  heart  and  soul  to  a  novel;  and  that 
is  what  I  want  to  do." 

She  looked  downcast. 

"When  do  you  mean  to  begin  it?  You  could 
knock  off  ten  thousand  words  first,  couldn't  you? 


298  CYNTHIA 

And  I  believe  an  occasional  short  story  would 
come  as  a  relief  to  you,  too !  I  wouldn't  persuade 
you  against  your  will — pray  don't  think  that — 
but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  no  reason  why 
you  shouldn't  make  a  few  pounds  a  week  all  the 
time  you're  writing  your  book,  you  know^  if 
you  like.  I  don't  want  another  novel  yet,  but  I 
can  take  almost  any  number  of  short  stories; 
or,  if  you  preferred  it,  you  might  write  me  a  short 
thing  that  could  be  published  in  paper  covers  at 
a  shilling.  Will  you  think  it  over  ?  I  don't  want 
to  hurry  your  decision."  She  hummed  a  snatch 
of  tune,  and  picked  up  a  new  song  that  was  lying 
on  the  piano.  "Have  you  seen  this?"  she  said 
carelessly.    "It's  pretty." 

Kent  took  it  from  her,  and  played  with  the 
leaves  in  a  pause.  He  was  conscious  that  he 
must  decline  now,  and  definitely,  and  the  insist- 
ence of  her  request  made  the  duty  harder  every 
second.  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  sauntered  about  the 
room;  she  felt  blank  and  annoyed  with  herself. 
Was  this  her  reward  for  liking  the  man  enough 
to  give  him  two  hundred  pounds  in  a  lump, 
instead  of  paying  him  by  instalments,  which 
would  have  been  infinitely  more  convenient  to 
her? 

"If  you  won't  think  me  boorish,"  he  said  at 
last  abruptly,  "I'd  rather  keep  to  my  intention. 


CYNTHIA  299 

I'm  not  a  boy — I  need  all  the  time  at  my  dispo- 
sal to  succeed  in." 

She  gave  a  forced  laugh. 

"How  much  younger  do  you  want  to  be?  If 
the  money  doesn't  attract  you,  it  won't  be  in 
your  way,  I  suppose;  and — you  can  do  it  to  ob- 
lige me!  Come,  I'm  quite  frank!  I  own  that 
you're  very  useful  to  me.  You  don't  mean  that 
you're  going  to  strike  and  leave  me  in  the  lurch  ?" 

The  face  upturned  to  him  was  more  earnest 
than  her  words.  Her  brown  eyes  widened,  and 
fastened  on  him,  and  for  an  instant  his  resolution 
broke  down.  But  it  was  his  work,  and  his  am- 
bition, his  fidelity  to  his  art,  that  she  was  asking 
him  to  waive — he  would  not ! 

"Nobody  so  sorry  as  the  'striker,'  "  he  said, 
in  a  tone  to  match  her  own.  "Let  me  be  your 
banker  when  I'm  going  into  a  dozen  editions, 
Mrs.  Deane-Pitt,  and  I'll  serve  you  all  you  want. 
The  service  you  ask  me  to-day  is  just  the  one  I 
can't  do." 

"Bien,"  she  murmured;  "I  suppose  you  know 
your  own  business  best." 

But  she  was  plainly  disappointed,  and,  though 
she  speedily  spoke  of  another  subject,  her  voice 
lacked  spontaneity.  Kent's  courage  knew  no 
approving  glow,  and  if,  during  the  minutes  he 
remained,  she  had  begged  him  to  assist  her  by 


800  CYNTHIA 

returning  the  cheque,  he  would  most  certainly 
have  done  it.  He  thought  that  she  must  hate 
him — though  in  truth  he  had  never  appealed  to 
her  so  strongly — and  it  was  the  only  occasion  on 
which  he  had  ever  taken  leave  of  her  without 
regret. 

To  Cynthia  he  wrote  immediately,  telling  her 
he  had  been  paid  two  hundred  pounds,  and  en- 
closing twenty-five,  that  she  might  have  a  surplus 
to  draw  upon  without  applying  to  him.  He  also 
remitted  to  Paris  the  amount  necessary  to  redeem 
her  ring,  and  his  watch  and  chain,  and  the  rest. 
He  had  now  an  opportunity  of  going  down  to  see 
her,  and  he  told  her  that  she  might  expect  him 
on  Monday  or  Tuesday  in  the  following  week. 
The  picture  he  had  once  seen  of  surprising  her  in 
the  garden  had  long  since  ceased  to  present  itself 
to  him,  and  he  was  not  impatient  to  find  himself 
in  his  wife's  company  in  the  circumstances.  He 
questioned  if  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  would  be  disposed 
to  go  with  him  to  Richmond  after  what  had 
passed.  To  refuse  a  woman's  petition  to  aug- 
ment her  income,  but  to  invite  her  to  dinner  at 
Richmond,  was  rather  suggestive  of  the  bread 
and  the  stone.  Yet,  now  that  propinquity  was  not 
her  ally,  he  was  fervently  glad  that  he  had  had 
strength  to  refuse.  It  was  a  partnership  that 
every  month  would  have  made  more  difficult  to 


CYNTHIA  301 

sever,  and  she  had,  apparently,  looked  for  it  to 
extend  over  years.  As  to  Richmond,  he  hoped 
the  engagement  would  be  fulfilled;  it  would  pain 
him  intensely  otherwise.  He  owed  her  too  much 
to  be  reconciled  to  their  separating  with  coldness, 
and  he  determined  to  send  a  note,  reminding  her 
of  her  promise. 

Her  reply  allayed  his  misgivings.  It  was  con- 
firmed by  her  demeanour  when  they  met.  In- 
deed, her  display  of  even  more  good  fellowship 
than  usual  made  him  feel  rather  guilty. 

She  seemed  to  divine  his  reflections,  and  to 
assure  him  that  such  self-reproach  was  needless. 
She  had  never  been  brighter  or  more  informal 
with  him  than  in  the  hansom  as  they  drove  down. 
Her  air  implied  that  their  previous  interview  had 
been  a  trivial  folly  which,  as  sensible  people,  they 
must  banish  from  their  minds,  and  she  talked  of 
everything  and  nothing  with  the  gaiety  of  a 
schoolgirl  on  an  unforeseen  excursion,  and  the 
piquancy  of  a  woman  who  had  observed  and 
lived. 

Her  vivacity  was  infectious,  and  Kent's  con- 
straint gradually  melted  in  a  rush  of  the  warmest 
gratitude  for  her  forbearance.  He  was  so  entire- 
ly at  her  mercy  here,  and  he  thought  that  few 
women  similarly  placed  would  have  refrained 
from  planting  at  least  one  little  sting  among  their 


302  CYNTHIA 

verbal  honey.  His  admiration  began  to  comprise 
details.  He  remarked  the  hat  she  wore,  and  the 
delicacy  of  a  little  ear  against  her  hair's  duskiness. 
He  noted  with  pleasure  the  quick,  petulant  twitch 
of  a  corner  of  her  mouth  as  her  veil  got  in  the 
way,  and  the  appreciative  gaze  of  young  men  in 
the  cabs  that  rolled  towards  them — a  gaze  which 
invariably  terminated  in  a  swift  scrutiny  of  the 
charming  woman's  companion. 

When  the  hotel  was  reached,  he  had  never  been 
livelier;  and,  often  as  he  had  read  an  opposite 
opinion,  he  found  it  very  delightful  to  see  the 
woman  he  was  in  love  with  eat,  and  drink  her 
champagne.  It  was  intimate,  it  lessened  the  noli 
me  tangere  mien  of  feminine  fashion  and  brought 
her  closer.  The  attire  of  an  attractive  woman 
who  has  never  belonged  to  him  has  always  a 
mystery  for  a  man,  though  he  may  have  had  three 
wives  and  kept  a  dressmaker's  shop.  But  liveli- 
ness was  succeeded  by  a  vaguer  emotion,  as  they 
lounged  on  the  terrace  over  their  coffee  and 
liqueurs.  Under  the  moon  the  river  shone  divine, 
limitless  in  its  glint  and  shadow.  Her  features 
took  tenderness  from  the  tremulous  light,  and 
sometimes  a  silence  fell  which,  as  he  yielded  him- 
self to  the  subtile  endearment  of  the  moment,  soft 
as  the  breath  of  love  on  his  face,  Kent  felt  to  be 
the  supplement  of  speech.    A  woman  who  could 


CYNTHIA 

have  uttered  epigrams  in  the  mood  that  possessed 
him  now  would  have  disgusted  him,  and  insen- 
sibly their  tones  sank.  She  spoke  gently,  seri- 
ously. Presently  some  allusion  that  she  made 
begot  a  confidence  about  her  earlier  life — her 
marriage.  It  disturbed  him  to  hear  that  she  had 
been  fond  of  Deane-Pitt  when  she  married  him, 
yet  he  was  grieved  when  she  owned  how  quickly 
her  illusions  had  died.  Her  belief  that  she  might 
have  been  "a  better  woman"  if  she  had  married 
a  different  man  was  pathetic  in  its  revelation  of 
unsuspected  heart-aches,  and  sympathy  made 
him  execrate  the  feebleness  of  words.  Her  voice 
acquired  an  earnestness  that  he  had  never  heard 
in  it  before,  and  while  he  was  stirred  with  the  sin- 
cerest  pity  for  her,  a  throb  of  rapture  was  in  his 
veins  that  she  could  be  talking  so  to  him.  The  min- 
utes were  ineffable,  in  which  she  seemed  to  discard 
the  social  mask  and  surrender  more  and  more  of 
her  identity  to  his  view.  Spiritually  she  appeared 
to  be  lying  in  his  arms;  and  when  she  checked 
herself,  and  rallied  with  a  laugh  which  was  over- 
taken by  a  sigh,  he  felt  that  he  could  have  listened 
to  her  for  ever. 

"How  solemn  we've  become!"  she  ex- 
claimed; "and  we  came  out  to  be  'festive'  to- 
night." 


304  CYNTHIA 

"I  shall  always  remember  the  'you'  of  to- 
night," he  said. 

They  were  silent  again.  She  passed  her  hand 
across  her  eyes  impatiently,  as  if  to  wave  away 
the  pictures  of  the  past.  By  transitions  their 
tones  regained  their  former  cheerfulness.  She 
mentioned  the  hour,  and  drew  her  wrap  about 
her.    It  was  time  to  return. 

"It  has  been  delicious,"  she  murmured,  looking 
up  at  the  stars.  "Only  you  let  me  bore  you." 

"By  talking  of  yourself?" 

"So  stupid  of  me!" 

"You  know,"  said  Kent — "you  know!" 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you ;  you  won't  think  so  badly 
of  me,  perhaps." 

"I?" 

"I'm  sure  you  have.     Now,  sometimes?" 

"If  I  confessed  my  thoughts,  you'd  never  say 
so  any  more." 

"Really?"  Her  eyes  flashed  mockery.  "You 
mustn't  tell  me,  then — I  might  be  vain." 

The  cab  bowled  over  the  white  roads  rapidly. 
The  flutter  of  her  scarf  on  his  shoulder  stole 
through  his  blood,  and  the  clip-clop  sound  of  the 
horse's  hoofs  seemed  to  him  to  waken  echoes 
in  his  inside. 

"Do  you  know,  it  was  very  indiscreet  of  me 


CYNTHIA  305 

to  come  down  here  with  you?"  she  laughed. 
"Supposing  somebody  had  met  us!" 

"And  then?" 

"What  would  be  thought?" 

"What  could  be  thought?"  he  asked  unsteadily. 

"Scandal,  perhaps.  I'm  very  angry  with  you; 
you've  made  me  do  wrong.  Why  did  you  make 
me  do  wrong  when  I  had  such  faith  in  you?" 

"You've  given  me  the  happiest  evening  of  my 
life,"  said  Kent;  "is  that  the  wrong?" 

"Do  you  think  happiness  must  always  be  right? 
It's  a  convenient  creed.  Happiness  at  any  price 
■ — and  let  the  woman  pay  it.  eh?  That's  a  man's 
philosophy.  You're  quite  right,  though;  but, 
then,  you're  at  the  happiest  time  of  life.  IsTo, 
nobody  is  ever  that!  The  happiest  time  of  life's 
the  past.  Believe  me,  or  believe  me  not,  the  past 
is  always  beautiful;  to-morrow  I  shall  regret  to- 
day." 

"So  shall  I,"  said  Kent.  "But  very  much  in- 
deed I  appreciate  it  now.  .  .  .  What  are  you 
cynical  for?  You  only  put  it  on.  It's  not  'you' 
really." 

"  'Wise  judges  are  we  of  each  other.'  How 
do  you  know?" 

"You  said  that  to  me  once  before — in  Paris." 

"Said  what?    Oh,  the  quotation!   When?" 

"At  your  place,  after  the  Varietes." 


608  CYNTHIA 

"What  a  memory!  Yes,  you're  certainly  re- 
solved to  try  to  make  me  vain.  But  I'm  ada- 
mant. Did  you  know  that?  I'm  made  of  stone. 
Do  you  treasure  up  what  every  woman  says  to 
you?  The  answer  is  a  wounded  gaze;  it's  dark 
to  see  expressions,  but  I'll  take  it  for  granted." 

"I  remember  what  you  said  to  me  half  an  hour 
ago,  and  I  know  your  bitterness  is  a  sham.  You 
were  meant  to  be " 

"Oh,  'meant'!"  she  cried  recklessly;  "a  wom- 
an's what  she's  made.  I'm  afraid  Tve  been  made 
untidy.  Do  you  mind  driving  in  a  hansom  with 
such  a  figure?" 

She  plucked  at  her  veil  in  the  strip  of  looking- 
glass,  and  bent  her  face  to  him  for  criticism. 
The  brilliance  of  the  eyes  that  she  widened 
glowed  into  him  as  she  leant  so,  and  his  arms 
trembled  to  enfold  her.  His  mouth  was  dry  as 
he  muttered  a  response. 

The  sweetness  of  June  was  in  the  air  that  ca- 
ressed them  as  they  sped  through  the  moonlight. 
With  every  sentence  she  let  fall,  with  every 
glance  she  shot  at  him,  she  dizzied  him  more,  and 
he  sat  strained  with  the  struggle  to  retain  his 
self-command.  Through  his  febrile  emotions,  the 
horror  of  proving  false  to  Cynthia  loomed  like 
an  angel  betokening  the  revulsion  of  his  remorse. 


CYNTHIA  307 

He  could  imagine  the  afterwards — he  knew  how 
he  would  feel — and  there  were  instants  in  which 
he  prayed  for  the  drive  to  finish  and  permit  es- 
cape. But  there  were  instants  also  in  which  he 
ceased  to  fight,  and  steeped  in  the  present, 
yearned  only  to  forget  his  wife,  though  tardy 
remembrance  should  be  a  double  scourge. 

Her  fingers  were  busy  at  a  knot  of  violets  in 
her  dress;  and  she  held  the  flowers  up  to  him, 
looking  round,  smiling. 

"Shall  I  give  you  a  buttonhole?"  she  inquired 
gaily.  "It  would  be  an  appropriate  conclusion 
— my  ideals,  my  withered  hopes,  and  my  dead 
violets !  Oh,  I  shiver  to  think  of  what  I  said  to 
you!  Did  I  gush  towards  the  last?  I've  a  fear- 
ful, a  ghastly  misgiving  that  I  gushed.  If  you 
acknowledge  that  I  did,  I'll  never  forgive  you; 
but  you  shouldn't  have  encouraged  me.  Stoop 
for  the  souvenir!  It  cost  a  penny — symbolic  of 
the  sentiment.  .  .  .  Though  lost  to  sight,  to 
memory  dear!  It  will  be  a  very  dear  memory, 
won't  it?  Use  me  one  day!  I  shall  come  in  as 
material — the  hard  woman  of  the  world,  who 
bares  her  soul  on  impulse,  and  the  Star  and  Gar- 
ter terrace,  to  the  man  she  likes  and  stands  re- 
vealed as — as  what?  I  wonder  what  you'd  make 
of  me.    Child,  I  shall  never  get  this  buttonhole 


308  CYNTHIA 

in  if  you  don't  turn!  I've  admitted  I'm  a  spec- 
tacle, but  you  might  suffer  for  a  second." 

Her  hair  swept  his  cheek  as  she  wrestled  with 
refractory  stalks,  and  the  dark  eyes  grew  and 
fastened  on  him  again. 

The  hansom  sped  on.  The  quietude  was  left 
behind,  and  the  lights  of  the  West  End  twinkled 
around  them.  There  was  the  rattle  of  traffic. 
Kent  was  laughing  at  something  she  had  said, 
and  he  heard  himself  with  surprise — or  was  it 
himself?  The  cab  rolled  to  a  standstill,  and  they 
got  out.  The  lift  bore  them  to  her  landing.  The 
servant  opened  the  door. 

"Good-night,"  he  said;  "I  won't  come  in." 

"Oh,  come  in;  it's  not  ten  o'clock.  You'll  have 
a  brandy-and-soda  before  you  go?" 

She  entered  without  waiting  for  his  reply,  and 
he  followed  her  reluctantly.  Only  the  lamp  had 
been  lighted,  and  the  room  was  full  of  crimson 
shadow.  He  stood  watching  her  unpin  her  hat 
before  the  mirror,  and  pull  at  her  gloves. 

"I  don't  think  I'll  stop,"  he  said  again,  "really! 
I've  something  to  do." 

"If  I  can't  persuade  you "  she  answered 

listlessly. 

Her  gaiety  had  deserted  her,  and  there  was 
weariness  in  her  attitude  as  she  drooped  by  the 
mantelshelf;  her  air,  her  movements,  had  a  Ian- 


CYNTHIA  309 

guor  now.    She  put  out  her  bare  hand  slowly,  and 
Kent's  clung  to  it. 

He  stood  holding  her  hand  in  a  pause.  .  .  . 

"I  can't  leave  you,"  said  Kent. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

It  was  a  little  less  than  a  fortnight  after  the 
dinner  at  Richmond  that  Kent  brought  Mrs. 
Deane-Pitt  the  ten-thousand- word  story  that  she 
had  wanted,  and,  like  the  two  earliest  stories  that 
he  had  written  for  her,  it  was  work  to  which  he 
would  have  been  glad  to  see  his  own  name  at- 
tached. He  had  promised  to  let  her  have  half 
a  dozen  short  stories  as  soon  after  its  completion 
as  possible,  and  it  was  his  delight  to  surprise  her 
by  the  versatility,  as  well  as  the  originality,  of 
the  invention  that  he  displayed  in  these.  In  one 
he  wrote  an  idyll;  in  another  a  gruesome  little 
sketch,  bound  to  attract  attention  by  its  weird- 
ness ;  in  a  third  he  seemed  to  be  running  through 
the  stalest  of  devices  towards  the  most  common- 
place of  conclusions,  until,  lo!  in  the  last  half- 
column  there  came  a  literary  thunder-clap,  and 
this  story  was  even  more  startling  than  its  pre- 
decessors. But  all  the  links  fitted,  if  a  reader 
liked  to  take  the  trouble  to  look  back,  and  the 
tragedy  had  been  foreshadowed  from  the  begin- 
ning.   The  tales  tickled  the  fancy  of  the  Editor  i 

310 


CYNTHIA  311 

for  whom  they  were  intended.  They  tickled  it 
so  much  that  he  asked  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  to  con- 
tribute regularly  for  a  few  months ;  and  the  lady 
accepting  the  compliment  and  the  invitation, 
Kent  continued  to  supply  The  Society  Mirror 
with  an  idyll,  or  a  tragedy,  or  a  comedy  every 
week,  astonished  at  his  own  fecundity. 

It  was  amazing  how  his  hand  was  emboldened, 
his  imagination  stimulated,  by  the  knowledge 
that  his  work  was  accepted  before  it  was  penned. 
There  were  weeks  during  which  he  turned  out  a 
story  for  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  nearly  every  day.  All 
the  stories  were  built  upon  more  or  less  brilliant 
ideas,  each  of  them  was  noteworthy  and  dis- 
tinctive when  it  appeared  in  The  Society  Mirror 
or  elsewhere ;  and  if  his  share  of  the  swindle  had 
been  punctiliously  paid  to  him  now,  he  would 
have  been  making  a  good  deal  of  money.  Even 
as  it  was,  he  was  making  it  in  a  sense,  for  his 

i  partner  always  credited  him  with  the  sums  that 
were  not  forthcoming — entering  them  in  an  oxi- 
dised silver  memorandum-book  that  she  kept  in 

|  one  of  the  drawers  of  her  desk.    When  he  said 

!  that  it  did  not  matter  about  that,  she  laughingly 
told  him  not  to  be  a  fool. 

His  conscience  was  not  dull,  however,  and 

I  there  were  hours  when  Kent  suffered  scarcely 
less  acutely  than  one  realises  that  a  wife  may 


812  CYNTHIA 

sometimes  suffer  in  similar  circumstances.  His 
remorse  then  was  just  what  he  had  known  it 
would  be.  From  making  his  projected  visit  to 
Monmouth  he  had  excused  himself — it  was  re- 
pugnant enough  to  play  the  hypocrite  in  his  let- 
ters— and  by  degrees  Cynthia  ceased  to  refer  to 
his  coming;  but  while  her  silence  on  the  point  re- 
lieved him  from  the  necessity  for  telling  her  fur- 
ther falsehoods,  it  intensified  his  shame. 

His  abasement  was  completed  by  the  seventh 
rejection  of  The  Eye  of  the  Beholder.  He  sent 
it  off  again  at  once,  to  Messrs.  Kynaston,  to  get 
it  out  of  his  sight ;  but  the  return  of  the  ill-starred 
package  had  revived  all  the  passion  of  his  disap- 
pointment concerning  it,  and  he  could  not  get 
rid  of  the  burning  at  his  heart  so  easily  as  he 
did  of  the  parcel.  The  weight  of  the  slighted 
manuscript  lay  on  his  spirit  for  days  after  Thur- 
gate  and  Tatham's  refusal.  The  irony  of  it, 
that  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  could  place  his  hasty  work 
in  the  best  papers,  was  enabled  to  pay  him  two 
hundred  pounds  for  writing  a  novel  of  which  he 
was  ashamed,  while  his  own  book,  to  which  he  had 
devoted  a  year,  was  scorned  on  all  sides !  True, 
he  had  had,  in  his  own  name,  very  much  better 
reviews  than  those  that  had  been  accorded  so 
far  to  the  novel  written  for  her.  But  .  .  .  what 
a  profession? 


CYNTHIA  313 

Once  he  owned  to  her  something  of  what  he 
was  feeling.  He  couldn't  help  himself — he 
wanted  her  to  comfort  him. 

"The  Eye  of  the  Beholder  has  come  hack 
again,"  he  groaned. 

"Really?"  she  said.   "How  many  is  that?" 

"God  knows!  It's  awfully  hard  that  you  can 
place  whatever  I  do,  Eva,  and  I  get  my  best  stuff 
kicked  back  to  me  from  every  publisher's  office 
in  London,    I'm  miserable!" 

She  smiled.  She  did  not  mean  to  be  unsym- 
pathetic, but  Kent  hated  her  for  it  furiously  as 
<  she  turned  her  face. 

"There's  much  in  a  name,"  she  said  with  a 
shrug.  "What's  the  difference,  though?  Your 
!  terms  aren't  bad,  'miserable  one,'  whether  the 
name  is  mine  or  yours.  By  the  way,  I  can  work 
another  tale  for  The  Metropolis,  if  you'll  knock 
it  off  for  me;  I  was  going  to  write  to  you." 

Kent  never  appealed  to  her  for  pity  again. 
But  a  little  later  there  came  a  letter  from  Cyn- 
thia, replying  to  his  brief  announcement  of  Thur- 
gate  and  Tatham's  rejection.  Her  consolation 
and  prophesies  of  "success  yet"  overflowed  four 
sheets,  and  the  man's  throat  was  tight  as  he  read 
them. 

Well,  he  must  do  the  tale  for  The  Metropolis! 
But  he  would  write  some  short  stories  for  himself 


314  CYNTHIA 

as  well,  he  determined.  It  had  not  been  a  lucra- 
tive occupation  when  he  essayed  it  before,  but 
those  early  stories  had  been  the  wrong  kind  of 
thing — he  perceived  it  now:  he  would  write  some 
short  stories  of  the  pattern  that  was  so  success- 
ful when  it  was  signed  "Eva  Deane-Pitt." 

He  soon  began  to  see  his  work  over  her  signa- 
ture in  almost  every  paper  that  he  looked  at. 
If  he  turned  the  leaves  of  a  magazine  on  a  book- 
stall, a  tale  of  his  own  met  his  eyes,  signed  "Eva 
Deane-Pitt";  if  he  picked  up  a  periodical  in  a 
restaurant,  a  familiar  sentence  might  flash  out 
of  the  pages  at  him,  and  there  would  be  another 
of  his  stories  "By  Eva  Deane-Pitt."  Yes,  he 
would  submit  to  the  editors  on  his  own  account! 
He  would  not  receive  such  terms  as  she,  that  he 
knew;  he  doubted  strongly  whether  he  would 
even  receive  so  much  as  she  spared  to  him  after 
retaining  the  larger  share.  But  he  could,  and  he 
would,  get  what  was  dear  to  him — the  recognition 
and  the  kudos  to  which  he  was  entitled! 

He  found  that  he  did  not  write  so  quickly  for 
himself  as  in  his  capacity  of  ghost,  but  he  was 
not  discouraged,  for  he  felt  that  he  was  writing 
better.  For  a  week  he  did  nothing  for  the  woman 
at  all;  he  wrote  all  day  and  half  the  night  as 
"Humphrey  Kent,"  and  when  a  manuscript  was 
declined  by  The  Society  Mirror  he  sent  it  to  The 


CYNTHIA  315 

Metropolis,  and  forwarded  the  story  rejected 
by  The  Metropolis  to  The  Society  Mirror.  He 
could  not  abandon  his  work  for  her  entirely,  but 
under  the  pressure  that  she  put  upon  him,  and 
his  new  interests,  he  wrote  for  her  more  and  more 
hastily — wrote  frank  and  unmitigated  rubbish  at 
last,  and  on  one  occasion  candidly  told  her  so. 

She  had  telegraphed  to  him  at  six  o'clock,  beg- 
ging him  to  call,  and  he  had  risen  from  his  table 
feeling  that  his  head  was  vacant.  She  clamoured 
for  a  two-thousand-word  story  by  the  first  post 
the  following  morning,  and  insisted,  as  usual, 
that  "anything  would  do."  He  assured  her  that 
he  was  too  exhausted  even  to  invent  a  motive; 
how  could  he  produce  two  thousand  words  before 
he  slept?  She  overruled  his  objections,  hanging 
about  him  with  caresses.  She  made  him  promise 
that  the  sketch  should  reach  her  in  time. 

"Write  twaddle,  dearest  boy,"  was  her  part- 
ing injunction,  "but  write  it!  A  motive?  A  mer- 
cenary girl  jilts  her  lover  because  he  is  poor,  and 
then  her  new  fiance  loses  his  fortune,  and  the 
jilted  lover  succeeds  to  a  dukedom!  What  does 
it  matter?  Write  a  story  that  Noah  told  to  his 
family  in  the  Ark — only  cover  enough  pages. 
Write  any  rot;  simply  fill  it  out.  I  depend  on 
you,  Humphrey,  mind!" 

He  went  home  and  did  it — on  the  lines  she  had 


316  CYNTHIA 

laid  down.  She  wanted  drivel — she  should  have 
it!  He  did  not  stop  to  think  at  all.  He  wrote, 
without  a  pause  or  a  correction,  as  rapidly  as 
his  pen  would  glide,  and  posted  the  tale  to  her 
before  half-past  ten.    A  note  went  with  it. 

"I  have  done  as  you  ordered,"  he  scribbled. 
"Don't  blame  me  because  no  editor  will  take 
such  muck  now  you  are  obeyed." 

She  had  no  complaint  to  make  when  he  saw 
her  next.  And  it  was  after  this  that  Kent's  work 
for  her  was  uniformly  fatuous,  while  he  lavished 
on  his  own  a  wealth  of  fastidious  care  for  which 
she  wrould  have  mocked  him  had  she  known. 
He  visited  her  at  much  longer  intervals  now,  for 
a  disgust  of  her  caresses  was  growing  in  him,  a 
horror  of  the  amorous  afternoons,  which  ended 
always  with  a  plea  for  additional  tales.  But  that 
cowardice  prevented  him,  he  would  have  stayed 
away  altogether.  There  grew  something  like 
horror  of  the  woman  herself,  insatiable,  no  mat- 
ter with  how  much  work  he  might  supply  her — 
coaxing  him  for  "two  little  stories  more;  any- 
thing will  do — I  must  have  a  new  costume,  dar- 
ling, really!"  while  a  batch  of  manuscript  that 
he  had  brought  to  her  lay  in  her  lap.  He  could 
remember  now,  with  her  arms  about  him,  the 
many  original  ideas  that  she  had  had  from  him 


CYNTHIA  317 

at  the  beginning,  and  he  felt  with  a  shudder  that 
her  clutch  was  deadly.  First  she  had  had  his 
brains,  and  now  she  stole  his  conscience.  He 
foresaw  that,  if  the  strain  that  she  put  upon  him 
continued,  a  day  must  come  when  the  imagina- 
tion that  she  was  squeezing  like  an  orange  would 
be  sterile,  or  fruitful  of  nothing  better  than  the 
literary  abortions  with  which  his  mistress  was 
content. 

His  dismay  at  his  position  did  not  wane.  It 
became  so  evident  that,  by  degrees,  a  coldness 
crept  into  the  woman's  manner  towards  him. 
He  was  at  no  pains  to  dispel  it.  That  their  re- 
lations drifted  on  to  a  purely  business  footing 
[inspired  him  with  no  other  fear  than  that  pres- 
ently she  might  make  him  a  scene  and  entail 
upon  him  the  disagreeable  necessity  for  declar- 
[ing,  as  delicately  as  he  could,  that  his  infidelity 
to  his  wife  had  been  a  madness  that  he  violently 
regretted,  and  would  never  repeat.  The  obvious 
retort  would  be  so  superficially  true  that  fer- 
vently he  trusted  that  the  necessity  would  not 
arise. 

[Meanwhile  the  short  stories  submitted  in  his 
own  name,  with  silent  prayers,  had  all  been  re- 
fused; but,  undeterred  by  the  failure,  he  wrote 
more  and  more.  The  present  tenants  of  No.  64 
,were  anxious  to  renew  their  agreement  for  an- 


318  CYNTHIA 

other  six  months,  and  he  was  pleased  to  hear  it. 
The  prospect  of  meeting  Cynthia  again  fright- 
ened him ;  and,  closing  readily  with  the  offer  that 
afforded  him  a  respite,  he  remained  at  his  literary 
forge  in  Soho,  writing  for  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  and 
for  himself — seeing  sometimes  three  of  his  tales 
for  her  published,  by  different  papers,  in  the 
same  week,  and  finding  the  tales  submitted  in 
the  lowlier  name  of  "Humphrey  Kent"  returned 
without  exception. 

He  would  once  have  said  that  such  a  state  of 
things  couldn't  be,  but  now  he  discovered  that 
it  could  be,  and  was.  There  was  not  at  this  stage 
a  periodical  or  magazine  in  London  that  Hum- 
phrey Kent  did  not  essay  in  vain,  and  there  were 
not  more  than  three  or  four  (of  the  kind  that 
one  sees  in  a  club  or  an  educated  woman's  room) 
in  which  his  stuff  did  not  appear,  at  a  substan- 
tial rate  of  payment,  when  it  was  supposed  to  be 
by  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt.  There  were  not  in  London 
five  papers  making  a  feature  of  fiction,  which  did 
not  repeatedly  reject  the  man's  best  work,  signed 
by  himself,  and  accept  his  worst,  signed  by  some- 
body else.  Not  five  of  the  penny  or  sixpenny 
publications — not  five  among  the  first  or  second- 
class — not  five  editors  appraising  fiction  in  edi- 
torial chairs  who  did  not  either  find  or  assume  a 
story  bearing  the  unfamiliar  name  of  "Hum- 


CYNTHIA  319 

phrey  Kent"  to  be  below  their  standard,  while 
they  paid  ten  or  twelve  guineas  for  a  tale  scrib- 
bled by  the  same  author  in  a  couple  of  hours  when 
it  was  falsely  represented  to  be  by  Mrs.  Deane- 
Pitt.  During  nine  months  he  was  never  offered 
a  single  guinea  by  an  editor  for  a  tale.  Every 
story  that  he  submitted  during  nine  months  was 
declined,  and  every  story  that  he  gave  to  Mrs. 
Deane-Pitt  was  sold.  Raging,  he  swore  that 
some  day  he  would  set  the  facts  forth  in  a  novel ; 
and  even  as  he  swore  it,  he  knew  that  they  would 
be  challenged  and  that,  in  at  least  one  literary 
organ  of  eminence,  a  critic  would  write,  "We  do 
not  find  the  situation  probable." 

Once  an  editor  did  know  his  name.  He  was 
the  Editor  of  a  fashionable  magazine,  and  Kent 
had  called  at  the  office  to  inquire  about  a  manu- 
script that  had  been  lying  there  for  a  long  while. 
The  gentleman  was  very  courteous:  he  did  not 
remember  the  title,  and,  unfortunately,  he  could 
not  put  his  hand  on  the  tale  at  the  moment,  but 
he  promised  to  have  a  search  made  for  it,  and 
to  read  it  as  soon  as  it  was  found. 

A  letter  from  him  (and  the  manuscript) 
reached  Kent  the  same  week.  It  was  as  consider- 
ate a  letter  of  rejection  as  any  one  could  dictate. 
The  Editor  began  by  saying  that  the  story  "was 
clever,   as   all   Mr.   Kent  touched  was   clever, 


820  CYNTHIA 

but "    And  then  he  proceeded  to  analyse  the 

plot,  to  demonstrate  that  the  motive  was  too 
slight  for  the  purpose.  The  tone  was  so  kindly 
that,  though  Kent  could  not  perceive  the  justice 
of  the  criticism — he  was  sensible  enough  to  try 
— he  felt  a  glow  of  gratitude  towards  the  writer; 
and  his  appreciation  was  deepened  when  the  fol- 
lowing post  brought  him  a  copy  of  the  current 
issue  of  the  magazine,  "With  compliments. " 

He  opened  it  at  once,  and  the  first  thing  that 
he  saw  in  it  was  a  story  done  for  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt 
— the  story  that  he  had  written,  tired  and  in- 
solently careless,  about  the  mercenary  girl  and 
the  jilted  lover  and  the  succession  to  the  duke- 
dom. 

And  this,  too,  he  swore,  should  be  some  day 
recorded  in  a  novel,  though  a  critic,  knowing  less 
about  it  than  the  author,  would  "not  find  the 
situation  probable." 

Now,  when  he  was  least  expecting  it,  there 
came  to  him  the  first  gleam  of  encouragement 
that  he  had  had  since  he  received  his  last  review* 
Messrs.  Kynaston  wrote,  offering  to  undertake 
the  publication  of  The  Eye  of  the  Beholder,  if 
he  were  willing  to  accept  forty  pounds  for  the 
copyright. 

He  did  not  hesitate  even  for  an  instant;  he 


CYNTHIA  321 

said  "Thank  God!"  as  devoutly  as  if  he  had 
never  expected  more  for  it. 

Turquand  had  just  come  in. 

"It's  a  wicked  price,"  grunted  Turquand ;  "but 
I  suppose  you'll  take  it  if  you  can't  get  them  to 
spring?" 

"Take  it!  I  could  take  them  to  my  heart  for 
it!  Oh,  thank  God!  I  mean  it.  Yes,  it's  beg- 
garly, it's  awful;  but,  at  any  rate,  the  book  '11 
see  the  light.  Price?  It  isn't  a  price  at  all,  but 
the  thing  '11  be  published.  There's  quite  enough 
money  for  us  to  live  while  I'm  writing  my  next, 
and  this  will  send  me  to  it  with  double  energy. 
I  shall  go  to  Ivy nas ton's  to-morrow  morning." 

He  did  go,  and,  though  he  was  less  enthusiastic 
there,  his  attempt  to  induce  the  publisher  to  in- 
crease the  terms  was  but  weak.  Seven  rejec- 
tions had  made  a  high  hand  unattainable. 

"I  got  a  hundred  for  my  first,"  he  said,  "and 
you  offer  me  forty  for  my  second.  It  isn't  scal- 
ing the  ladder  with  rapidity." 

"The  other  was  longer,  perhaps,"  suggested 
Mr.  Kynaston,  tapping  his  fingers  together  pen- 
sively— "three  volumes?" 

"Don't  you  reckon  that  this  will  make  three 
volumes,  then?"  said  Kent. 

"Two.  It's  unfortunately  short;  that's  the 
only  fault  I  have  to  find  with  it.    I  like  it — it's 


322  CYNTHIA 

out  of  the  common;  but  there  isn't  enough  of 
it."  He  sighed.  "I  am  sorry  that  'forty'  is  the 
most  I  can  say.  I  considered  the  subject  very 
deeply  before  I  wrote  you — very  deeply  indeed." 

His  expression  implied  that  he  had  lain  awake 
all  night  considering,  and  that  regret  at  being 
unable  to  offer  more  might  even  keep  him  awake 
again  to-night. 

He  did  not  disguise  his  opinion  of  the  novel, 
however,  especially  after  the  matter  was  settled. 

"Send  us  something  else,  Mr.  Kent,"  he  said 
warmly,  as  he  saw  the  author  downstairs  and 
pressed  his  hand — "something  a  trifle  longer — 
and  we  shall  be  able  to  do  better  for  you.  Yours 
is  a  very  rare  style ;  you  have  remarkable  power, 
if  I  may  say  so.  If  fine  work  alwaj^s  meant  a 
fine  sale,  The  Eye  of  the  Beholder  should  see  six 
editions.  I  shall  get  it  out  at  once.  Good-day  to 
you:  and  don't  forget — make  your  next  book 
a  little  longer!" 

Turquand  would  not  be  back  for  some  hours, 
and  Kent  did  not  hurry  home.  He  sauntered 
through  the  streets  reflecting.  He  resolved  that 
now  he  would  do  ghost-work  no  more,  and  he 
wondered  how  Eva  would  receive  the  announce- 
ment. Disappointing  as  she  would  doubtless  find 
it,  she  would  not  have  had  much  to  complain  of,, 
he  thought;  he  congratulated  himself  anew  on 


CYNTHIA  323 

their  liaison  having  ended,  since  it  left  him  but 
one  association  to  sever,  instead  of  two.  Again 
an  access  of  remorse  in  its  most  poignant  form 
assailed  him,  and  he  wished  he  could  bear  his 
good  news  to  Cynthia  in  lieu  of  writing  it — 
wished  he  could  confess  to  Cynthia — wondered 
if  the  desire  to  do  so  was  mad. 

This  desire  had  fastened  on  Kent  more  than 
once.     He  thought  he  would  feel  less  guilty  to- 
wards her — would  be  less  guilty  towards  her — if 
she  knew.     There  had  been  moments  when,  if 
they  had  not  been  separated,  he  would  have  told 
her  the  truth  in  a  burst,  and,  whether  she  par- 
doned him  or  not,  have  lifted  his  head,  feeling 
I   happier  for  the  fact  that  the  avowal  had  been 
|  made.     He  did  not  imagine  that  his  craving  to 
|   confess  to  her  was  any  shining  virtue.    He  was 
;  conscious,  just  as  he  had  been  conscious  in  Paris, 
1  when  he  had  informed  her  casually  of  the  supper 
in  the  avenue  Wagram,  that  it  was  as  much  the 
weakness  of  his  character  as  its  nobility  which 
urged  him  to  voice  the  load  that  lay  on  his  mind ; 
but,  weak  or  noble,  the  longing  was  always  there, 
i   and  at  times  it  mastered  him  completely. 

Sleet  began  to  fall,  and  he  went  into  a  tea-room 
and  ordered  some  coffee.  A  copy  of  Fashion 
lay  on  the  table,  and,  mechanically  turning  the 
pages,  he  noticed  that  the  feature  of  the  issue 


324  CYNTHIA 

was  an  instalment  of  a  story  in  three  parts  by 
Lady  Cornwallis.  The  name  arrested  his  atten- 
tion, for  she  was  the  widow  of  a  man  who  had 
been  a  connection  of  the  late  Deane-Pitt's,  and 
Kent  was  aware  that  Eva  and  she  were  on  friend- 
ly terms.  He  glanced  at  the  heading  with  an  iron- 
ical smile;  the  lady  was  not  known  to  him  as  an 
author,  though  she  had  figured  prominently  of 
late  in  the  witness-box,  where  a  shrewd  solicitor, 
and  a  dressmaker  of  distinction,  had  posed  her 
in  a  quite  romantic  light;  he  surmised  bitterly 
that  her  maiden  effort  in  fiction  had  been  remu- 
nerated more  handsomely  than  his  second  novel. 
What  was  his  astonishment,  on  glancing  at  the 
opening  paragraph,  to  discover  that  the  story 
"By  Lady  Cornwallis"  was  another  of  the  stories 
that  had  been  written  by  himself  for  Mrs. 
Deane-Pitt! 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Editor,  thinking  that 
her  name  would  be  a  draw  just  now,  had  offered 
Lady  Cornwallis  a  hundred  pounds  for  a  tale 
to  run  through  three  numbers.  Lady  Cornwallis, 
who  had  never  tried  to  write  anything  more  ela- 
borate than  a  love-letter  in  her  life,  and  who  was 
being  dunned  to  desperation  for  an  account  at 
a  livery-stable,  had  gone  to  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt  to 
do  it  for  her.  Mrs.  Deane-Pitt,  who  wrote  much 
less  quickly  than  she  pretended,  had  relegated 


CYNTHIA  325 

the  duty  to  Kent.  It  was  a  literary  house-that- 
Jack-built.  Lady  Cornwallis,  fearing  that  her 
friend  might  ascertain  how  much  the  Editor  paid, 
had  ingenuously  halved  the  sum  with  her;  Mrs. 
Deane-Fitt,  confident  that  the  young  man  would 
be  unable  to  ascertain,  had  given  to  him  ten 
pounds.  At  the  details  of  the  transaction  Kent 
could  only  guess,  as  he  sat  staring  at  his  work 
while  his  coffee  got  cold ;  but  the  evolution  of  the 
story,  perpetrated  in  a  Soho  attic  for  ten  pounds, 
and  published  as  Lady  Cornwallis's  at  the  cost 
of  a  hundred,  was  interesting. 

He  was  fiercely  and  inconsistently  resentful. 
In  one  way  it  mattered  nothing  to  him.  Since 
his  stuff  wasn't  printed  over  his  own  name,  it 
was  unimportant  over  whose  name  it  appeared. 
But  the  perception  did  not  lessen  his  angry  sense 
of  having  been  duped.  He  remembered  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  he  had  written  this  tale  and 
the  lies  that  Eva  had  told  him  about  it.  Was  he 
to  become  the  ghost  of  every  impostor  in  Lon- 
don? 

Though  he  did  not  refer  to  the  discovery  that 
he  had  made,  it  lent  a  firmness  to  his  tone  when 
he  informed  her  that  his  book  was  accepted  and 
that  he  was  ging  down  to  the  country  to  devote 
a  year  to  another.  She  heard  him  without  re- 
monstrance.   Whatever  her  faults,  she  had  the 


326  CYNTHIA 

virtue  of  being  a  woman  of  the  world,  and  she 
did  not  endow  the  parting,  for  which  she  was 
partially  prepared,  with  any  tactless  tragedy. 
For  an  instant  only,  recalling  the  benefit  of  his- 
trionics at  Richmond,  she  considered  the  feasibil- 
ity of  sentiment  begetting  a  reconciliation;  then 
she  dismissed  the  idea.  The  man  was  remorseful 
— not  of  having  become  estranged  from  her,  but 
of  having  succumbed — and  sentiment  would  be 
wasted  to-day.  Besides,  it  would  make  the  inter- 
view painful  for  him,  and  she  didn't  care  for  him 
half  enough  to  be  eager  to  give  him  a  bad  time. 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Everything  has  an  end,"  she  said  languidly — 
"even  Daniel  Deronda.  I  owe  you  a  lot  of 
money,  by-the-by.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  square  ac- 
counts with  you  at  the  moment,  but  I  suppose 
you  don't  mind  trusting  me?" 

"You  owe  me  nothing,"  said  Kent.  "If  my 
boorishness  has  left  any  liking  for  me  possible, 
let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  feeling  that  I  did  you 
one  or  two  trifling  services." 

But  he  did  not  go  down  to  the  country.  More 
than  ever  he  felt  that  to  rejoin  his  wife  with  his 
guilt  unacknowledged  would  be  a  greater  trial 
than  he  could  endure.  She  was  so  innocent. 
If  she  had  been  a  different  kind  of  woman,  his 
reluctance  would  have  been  duller  and  easier  to 


CYNTHIA  827 

overcome ;  but  to  have  been  false  to  Cynthia  made 
him  feei  as  if  he  had  robbed  a  blind  girl. 

That  he  could  not  delay  rejoining  her  much 
longer  he  was  distressfully  aware.  It  was  ten 
months  since  she  had  gone  away,  and  even  if  the 
people  in  Streatham  wished  to  retain  the  house 
for  a  third  half-year,  as  he  understood  was  likely 
— their  return  to  New  York,  or  wherever  they 
had  come  from,  being  indefinitely  postponed — 
that  would  be  no  reason  why  he  and  Cynthia 
should  not  live  together  at  Monmouth  or  some- 
where else. 

He  had  written  her  that  Messrs.  Kynaston  had 
taken  The  Eye  of  the  Beholder,  and  during  the 
next  day  or  two  he  was  in  hourly  expectation  of 
her  reply.  On  the  third  afternoon  after  he  had 
posted  his  letter,  the  door  opened  and  she  came 
into  the  room. 

He  had  not  heard  the  bell  ring,  and  at  the 
sound  of  her  footstep  he  turned  quickly — and 
then,  almost  before  he  realised  it,  his  wife  was  in 
his  arms,  laughing  and  half  crying,  saying  how 
glad  she  was  to  see  him,  how  delighted  she  was 
at  the  book's  acceptance. 

"I  had  to  come,"  she  exclaimed — "I  had  to! 
Oh,  darling!  you  don't  mind  because  the  money 
isn't  much?  Think  what  Kynaston  said  of  it! 
And  for  your  next  you'll  get  proper  terms.  .  .  • 


328  CYNTHIA 

Well,  are  you  surprised  to  see  me  ?  Let  me  look 
at  you.  You're  different.  What  have  you  been 
doing  to  yourself?  And  Baby — you  wouldn't 
know  Baby.  He  talks!  .  .  .  I've  been  praying 
you'd  be  at  home.  I  wouldn't  let  them  show 
me  in;  I've  been  picturing  walking  in  on  you  all 
the  way  in  the  train.  .  .  .  Sweetheart!"  She 
squeezed  him  to  her  again,  and  then  held  him 
at  arm's  length,  regarding  him  gaily.  "You've 
changed,"  she  repeated;  "you  look  more  serious. 
And  I?  Am  I  all  right — am  I  a  disappoint- 
ment?" 

"You're  beautiful,"  said  Kent  slowly.  "You 
have  changed,  too." 

He  gazed  at  her  with  a  curious  sense  of  un- 
f  amiliarity,  striving  to  define  to  himself  the  alter- 
ation that  puzzled  him.  Her  face  had  gained 
something  besides  the  hues  of  health.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  her  eyes  were  deeper,  that  her  smile 
was  more  complex.  Vaguely  he  felt  that  he  had 
thought  of  her  as  a  girl  and  was  beholding  a 
woman — that  he  had  insulted  a  woman  who  was 
lovelier  than  any  he  had  known. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  invite  me  to  take  off  my 
things?    May  I?" 

"Do,"  he  said,  with  the  same  sense  of  strange- 
ness. "Can  I  help  you?"  He  took  them  from  her, 
awkwardly,  and  put  her  into  a  comfortable  chair, 


CYNTHIA  329 

and  made  up  the  fire.  "It's  a  new  hat,  it  suits 
you!  I  always  liked  you  in  a  little  hat.  Did  you 
get  it  down  there?" 

"I  trimmed  it  myself,"  she  said.  "Mind  the 
pin!" 

"You  shall  have  some  tea — or  would  you  rather 
have  dinner?  You  must  be  hungry!" 

"Tea,  please,  and  cake.  Can  you  produce 
cake?" 

"There's  a  confectioner's  just  round  the  cor- 
ner."   He  rang  the  bell. 

"Then,  madeira.  I  didn't  tell  the  servant  who 
I  was;  better  say  'my  wife'  casually  when  she 
comes  in.  I  suppose  you  don't  have  ladies  to 
tea  and  madeira  cake,  as  a  rule?" 

"Not  as  a  rule,"  he  said — "no." 

She  laughed  again,  and  stretched  her  shoes  to 
the  blaze  luxuriously. 

"So  this  is  the  room,  This  is  where  you  lived 
before  we  knew  each  other.  How  funny  that 
it  should  be  the  first  time  I've  been  in  it!  I've 
often  imagined  you  here,  and  it  isn't  the  least 
bit  like  what  I  fancied,  of  course;  I  always  saw 
the  window  over  there!  Well,  talk  to  me — tell 
me  all!  what  you  are  thinking  about?  I  believe 
you  find  me  plain  now  the  hat's  off!" 

Tea  was  brought  to  them  in  about  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  and  they  sat  before  the  fire  sipping  it, 


330  CYNTHIA 

and  stealing  glances  at  each  other — the  woman's, 
amused,  delicious;  Kent's,  guilty  and  tortured. 
He  was  tempted  to  kiss  her,  but  could  not  bring 
himself  to  do  it  deliberately;  and  with  every 
phrase  that  fell  from  her  lips  his  heart  grew 
heavier. 

"You've  scarcely  been  to  Strawberry  Hill  all 
the  time,  I  hear,"  she  said.  "This  is  very  good 
tea,  Humphrey  1" 

"Not  very  often;  I've  been  so  busy.  Yes,  it 
isn't  bad,  is  it  ?  the  landlady  gets  it  for  me.  Are 
they  offended  with  me?" 

"H'mph!  they'll  look  over  it.  You'll  have  to 
be  very  nice  and  repentant." 

"I  will.    I'll  go  this  week  if  I  can." 

"This  week?  You  must  take  me  to-night!" 
she  cried.  "What  do  you  suppose  is  going  to  be- 
come of  me?  I  can't  stop  here.  .  .  .  Shall  I 
give  you  another  cup  ?" 

Kent  felt  the  blood  sinking  from  his  face.  His 
hands  shook  as  he  bent  over  the  fire,  and  for  a 
moment  he  had  no  voice  to  reply. 

"You  don't  go  back  to  Monmouth  to-night?" 
he  asked  harshly,  without  looking  at  her. 

"N" — no,"  she  said;  "I  can't  go  back  till  to- 
morrow." 

"I  was  thinking  of  the  child,"  he  muttered. 

"He's  as  safe  with  the  nurse  as  with  me,"  she 


CYNTHIA  331 

answered;  "I  wouldn't  have  left  him  even  for 
a  day  if  he  hadn't  been." 

"I  see,"  said  Kent. 

His  pause  appeared  to  him  to  become  signifi- 
cant and  terrible. 

"I  can't  go  there  with  you  this  evening,"  he 
said  abruptly;  "it  can't  be  done.  I  have  to  be 
here — there  is  some  one  I  must  meet.  I  mean, 
I  can  take  you  there,  but  I  can't  possibly  stay. 
You — you  must  forgive  me,  Cynthia." 

Still  he  was  not  looking  at  her.  When  she 
spoke,  her  tone  was  different. 

"You  will  do  as  you  like,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  lifted  himself,  and  faced  her. 

"Cynthia!" 

"Well?" 

"Cynthia,  don't  think  I  don't  care  for  you." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  she  was  very  pale,  and 
her  lips  were  proudly  set. 

"You're  angry  with  me?"  he  stammered. 

"What  prevents  you — your  business?  If  you're 
too  late  for  a  train,  there  are  hansoms.  It 
would  be  expensive,  I  know " 

"'Expensive!'" 

"Perhaps  it  might  cost  half  a  sovereign." 

"Cynthia!    It's  impossible." 

"Oh,  please  don't  let's  talk  about  it!"  she  said. 
"I  made  a  mistake,  that's  all.    I've  made  a  good 


332  CYNTHIA 

many  since  I  married  you;  this  was  one  more." 
"I  can't  go,"  gasped  Kent,  fighting  for  his 

words.   "I If  I  cared  for  you  less,  I  should! 

I  can't  go,  because  there's  something  I  must  tell 
you  first.  If  .  .  .  but  you  won't.  I  want  you 
to  know  .  .  .  I've  a  confession  to  make  to  you. 
It's  over,  but  .  .  .  I've  acted  badly  to  you;  I 
haven't  the  right  to  go  to  you.  For  God's  sake, 
don't  hate  me  more  than  you  can  help — I've  been 
unfaithful." 

Her  first  sensation  was  as  if,  without  warning, 
he  had  dealt  her  a  brutal  blow  in  the  face.  There 
was  the  same  staggered  sense  of  fright,  succeeded 
by  the  same  sick  wave  of  horror.  Another  woman 
had  known  him?  Her  brain  did  not  leap  for  de* 
tails  instantaneously,  as  a  man's  would  have  leapt 
in  the  inverse  situation;  the  name  the  woman 
bore,  her  position — what  had  such  things  to  do 
with  it?  Curiosity  to  compare  her  with  herself 
in  looks  would  follow;  now,  while  she  stared  at 
him  with  bloodless  features,  she  was  conscious  of 
nothing  but  the  pollution:  another  woman  had 
known  him.  Kent  stared  back  at  her,  appalled  at 
her  aspect ;  but  he  divined  what  she  felt  no  more 
than  he  could  have  understood  her  emotions  had 
she  analysed  them  for  him.  "Another  woman  had 
known  him"  was  the  tumult  in  her  soul;  he  be- 
lieved her  pride  outraged  that  he  had  known 


CYNTHIA  333 

another  woman.  The  difference  was  enormous. 
The  curiosity  and  thirst  for  vengeance  apart, 
the  wife's  sensation  was  what  the  husband's 
would  have  been,  had  he  heard  of  her  own  de- 
filement. But  that  he  himself  appeared  to  her 
defiled  he  could  not  grasp ;  unworthy,  contempti- 
ble, corrupt,  he  realised,  but  "defiled,"  no. 

"Cynthia,  forgive  me!" 

She  swayed  a  little  as  his  voice  struck  her 
agony. 

"I'll  try." 

"You  see  why  I  couldn't  go?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  hoarsely. 

"I  should  have  told  you  anyhow  soon.  .  .  . 
You  aren't  sorry  I've  told  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  ...  I  think  I'm  sorry 
just  now.  I  shall  be  able  to  thank  you  for  that 
later." 

"I  did  it  for  the  best,"  said  Kent. 

"You  were  right." 

He  leant  against  the  mantelpiece,  his  chin 
sunk.  The  only  sound  in  the  room  came  from  the 
kettle,  on  which  the  woman's  eyes  were  fixed 
intently.  The  clock  of  St.  Giles-in-the-Fields 
tolled  four. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  he  said. 

"Oh,"  she  moaned,  "don't  ask  me;  I  can't  think 


334  CYNTHIA 

yet.  .  .  .  You've  killed  me,  Humphrey — you've 
killed  me!" 

He  dropped  before  her  chair  and  stroked  her 
hand.  Her  pain  writhed  like  a  live  thing  at  his 
touch,  but,  in  pity  for  him,  she  let  the  hand  lie 
still  and  suffered. 

"Did  you  .  .  .  love  her  so  much?"  she  asked. 

"God  knows  I  didn't!" 

"And  yet Humphrey,  she  wasn't ?" 

"I  was  mad.  She  was  a  lady.  It  wasn't  love; 
I  didn't  love  her  at  all.  ...  If  you  were  a  man, 
you'd  understand.  I  sinned  with  my  body,  but 
my  mind — she  never  had  that  ...  it  was  with 
you — with  you.  It  was  the  animal  in  me — how 
can  I  explain  to  an  angel?" 

Presently  she  said: 

"Does  a  woman  ever  learn  to  understand  a 

man?    She  gives  him  her  life;  yet  to  the  end 

They  begin  differently.  .  .  .  He  has  known 
everything  before  he  comes  to  her,  and  she  has 
known  nothing.  She's  told  that  it  doesn't  matter, 
that  it's  right.  She  doesn't  believe  it  in  her  heart 
— the  more  she  loves  him,  the  less  she  believes  it — 
but  she  tries  to  persuade  herself  she  believes  it. 
It's  wrong — wrong!  To  him  she's  a  new  girl, 
and  to  her  he  is  a  new  world.  How  can  marriage 
be  the  same  thing  to  both.  You  didn't  love  her, 
but  you  gave  yourself  to  her.    Could  a  husband 


CYNTHIA  335 

think  less  of  his  wife's  sin  for  a  reason  like  that?" 

Kent  rose,  and  stood  beside  her  dumbly.  Some 
glimmer  of  her  point  of  view  reached  him  and 
confused  him  by  its  strangeness. 

"I'll  do  whatever  you  want.  What  can  I 
say?" 

"Help  me  to  forget,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"Will  you  help  me  to  forget?" 

"You'll  let  me  come  to  you?" 

"Give  me  a  few  days — wait  a  few  days.  Only 
I  can't  be  your  wife  again,  Humphrey,  all  at  once 
— I  can't.  .  .  .  All,  don't  think  me  unforgiving; 
it  isn't  that.  Come  to  me,  if  you  will,  and  work, 
and  we'll  be  good  friends  together.  Don't  be 
afraid,  I  won't  make  it  bad  for  you,  I  promise — 
I'll  never  remind  you  even  by  a  look.  .  .  .  Are 
the  terms  too  hard?" 

"You're  merciful." 

The  seconds  crept  away. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said;  "I'll  write  to  you." 

"Shall  you  go  to  your  mother's?" 

"I  must;  there's  no  train  to  Monmouth  after 
three.  Will  you  send  for  a  cab  to  take  me  to 
Waterloo?  I'll  tell  them  you  were  coming  with 
me,  but  something  prevented  you.  .  .  .  Can  I 
bathe  my  eyes  in  your  room  before  I  go  ?" 

Kent  showed  her  where  it  was,  and  waited  for 
her  in  the  parlour.     Then  they  went  downstairs 


336  CYNTHIA 

together  to  the  cab.    She  leant  forward  and  gave 
him  her  hand. 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  me,"  she  whispered  again. 

"God  bless  you!"  he  said,  closing  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Cynthia  wrote  to  him  to  go  to  her. 

The  day  was  bright,  and  a  promise  of  spring 
was  in  the  air  as  he  journeyed  down.  Some  of 
its  brightness  seemed  to  tinge  his  mood,  and  he 
was  conscious  of  a  vague  wonder  at  the  pleasur- 
able emotions  that  stirred  him  as  fields  and 
hedgerows  shot  past. 

She  was  on  the  platform  awaiting  him,  though 
he  had  not  telegraphed  the  time  of  his  arrival. 
He  saw  her  at  once,  and  was  momentarily  a  prey 
to  misgivings.  Her  welcoming  smile  as  they  ad- 
vanced towards  each  other  dissipated  his  dread. 
But  it  revived  his  embarrassment,  and  his  em- 
barrassment appeared  to  her  pitiable. 

"I  knew,"  she  said  frankly,  "that  you  would 
come  by  this  train." 

She  gave  orders  to  a  porter  about  the  luggage, 
and  Kent  passed  into  Monmouth  by  her  side.  He 
heard  that  her  brother  had  come  down  to  see  her, 
and  was  at  the  cottage  now.  Csesar  was  having  a 
holiday,  and  had  been  spending  a  fortnight  with 
his  parents. 

337 


338  CYNTHIA 

"He  was  going  back  this  evening,  but  I  made 
him  stay  till  to-morrow.  Mrs.  Evans  found  him 
a  room  a  few  doors  off." 

He  understood  that  it  was  to  lessen  the  awk- 
wardness of  the  first  evening  for  him  that  she 
had  detained  her  brother,  and  he  was  grateful  to 
her. 

"You  must  know  the  place  well  by  now?"  he 
said,  looking  about  him. 

"Every  inch,  I  think.  It's  so  pretty.  I'm 
sorry  it  isn't  summer;  you'd  see.  We  have  a  lot 
of  artists  then.  I  got  rather  chummy  with  two 
girls  painting  here  in  the  autumn;  we  used  to  go 
to  tea  at  each  other's  lodgings.  I  learnt  a  lot.  .  . . 
That's  our  house — the  one  at  the  corner.  There's 
Mrs.  Evans  at  the  gate.  She  calls  you  'the  mas- 
ter.' She  hopes  the  master  will  find  her  cooking 
good  enough  for  him.  For  tea  she's  made  some 
hot  cakes  specially  in  your  honour." 

As  they  drew  nearer,  a  nurse  approached 
wheeling  a  child.  He  heard  that  it  was  "Hum- 
phrey," and  bent  over  the  little  fellow  timidly. 
Cynthia  hung  about  them,  praying  that  the  boy 
would  not  cry.  She  asked  him  who  the  gentle- 
man was,  and,  having  been  repeatedly  told  that 
"papa  was  coming,"  he  answered  "Papa!" 
Whereat  she  triumphed  and  the  man  was  pleased. 

In  the  parlour,  which  struck  Kent  agreeably 


CYNTHIA  339 

with  its  quiet,  old-fashioned  air,  the  Right  Hand 
of  McCullough  was  perusing  a  financial  paper. 
He  put  it  aside  to  greet  Kent  cordially.  His 
presence  dominated  the  evening,  and,  in  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  departing  early  next  day, 
Kent  even  found  him  amusing,  though  to  be 
amusing  was  not  his  aim.  Ostensibly  he  had 
come  to  England  on  a  financial  mission,  and  his 
vague  allusions  to  it  were  weighted  by  several 
names  of  European  importance.  Occasionally  his 
attention  wandered  and  he  lapsed  into  a  brown 
study,  obviously  preoccupied  by  millions.  For 
this  he  apologised,  in  case  it  had  been  unnoticed, 
and  rallied  Cynthia  on  the  "yellow-backs"  that 
were  visible  on  the  bookshelf. 

"I'm  afraid  I  see  a  lot  of  yellow-backs!"  he 
said,  lifting  a  playful  finger. 

A  novel,  by  a  woman,  of  which  The  Speaker 
had  written  that  "it's  dialogue  would  move  every 
literary  artist  to  enthusiasm,"  lay  on  the  window- 
sill — Kent  had  already  observed  it  with  gratifi- 
cation— and  Caesar  acknowledged  that  he  had 
read  it.  He  conceded  that  it  possessed  a  "super- 
ficial smartness."  "Superficial"  was  his  latest 
word,  and  when  his  discourse  took  a  literary  turn, 
his  authoritative  opinions  were  peppered  with  it. 

Kent's  bedroom  was  furnished  very  plainly, 
but  it  was  exquisitely  neat.    His  gaze  rested  with 


340  CYNTHIA 

thankfulness  on  a  large  table,  of  a  solidity  that 
seemed  to  promise  that  it  would  not  wobble.  Be- 
side the  blotting-pad  was  an  inkstand,  of  whose 
construction  the  primary  object  had  been  that  it 
should  hold  ink;  a  handful  of  early  flowers  was 
arranged  in  a  china  bowl.  There  was  a  knot  in 
his  throat  as  he  contemplated  these  preparations 
— the  more  touching  for  their  simplicity — and 
when  he  sat  down,  the  table  confirmed  its  prom- 
ise, and  he  found  that  the  position  afforded  him 
a  view  of  a  corner  of  the  garden. 

It  was  here  that  he  worked. 

By  degrees  the  frankness  of  her  manner  be- 
came more  spontaneous  in  Cynthia,  and  his  em- 
barrassment in  her  society  was  sometimes  forgot- 
ten. They  were,  as  she  had  promised,  the  best  of 
friends.  Their  rambles  together  had  a  charm 
which  one  associates  with  a  honeymoon,  but  in 
which  their  own  honeymoon  had  been  lacking. 
In  these  rambles  Kent  was  never  bored;  it  ap- 
peared to  him  delightful  to  place  himself  in  her 
hands  and  be  taken  where  she  listed  in  the  April 
twilight.  To  seek  shelter  from  showers  in  strange 
quarters  was  adventurous;  and  milk  had  a 
piquancy  drunk  with  Cynthia  in  farmyards.  He 
signed  the  extension  of  the  Streatham  agreement 
with  gladness. 

The  alteration  in  her  impressed  him  still  more 


CYNTHIA  341 

strongly  now  that  he  had  opportunities  for  study- 
ing it ;  and  the  gradual  result  of  three  years,  pre- 
senting itself  to  him  as  the  fruit  of  ten  months, 
was  startling.  His  wife  had  become  a  woman — 
in  her  tone,  in  her  bearing,  in  her  comments,, 
which  often  had  a  pungency,  though  they  might 
not  be  brilliant.  She  was  a  woman  in  the  com- 
posure with  which  she  ignored  their  anomalous 
relations — a  very  fascinating  woman  withal, 
whose  composure,  while  it  won  his  admiration, 
disturbed  him  too,  as  the  weeks  went  by.  It  was 
in  moments  difficult  to  identify  her  new  personal- 
ity with  the  girl's  whose  love  for  him  had  been  so 
constantly  evident.  Among  her  other  changes, 
had  she  grown  to  care  less  for  him?  He  could 
not  be  surprised  if  she  had. 

Shortly  after  his  arrival,  Messrs.  Kynaston 
had  begun  to  send  his  proof-sheets,  and  in  May 
The  Eye  of  the  Beholder  was  published.  In  the 
walk  that  they  took  after  Cynthia  had  read  it, 
she  and  Kent  spoke  of  little  else.  It  had  amazed 
him  to  perceive  how  eager  he  was  to  hear  her 
verdict,  and  at  her  first  words,  "I'm  proud  of 
you,"  the  colour  rushed  to  his  face.  He  would 
never  have  supposed  that  her  approval  could  ex- 
cite him  so  much,  or  that  her  views  would  have 
such  interest  for  him.  When  the  criticisms  be- 
gan to  come  in,  it  was  delicious,  as  they  sat  at 


342  CYNTHIA 

breakfast,  to  open  the  yellow  envelopes  and  de- 
vour the  long  slips  with  their  heads  bent  together; 
and  then,  after  he  had  paid  a  visit  to  the  child,  he 
would  go  up  to  his  room  and  wish  that  the  corner 
of  the  garden  that  he  overlooked  contained  the 
bench. 

Despite  the  seven  rejections,  and  the  opinion 
of  Messrs.  Cousins'  reader  that  the  construction 
rendered  the  novel  hopeless,  the  criticisms  were 
magnificent.  The  more  important  the  paper,  the 
less  qualified  was  the  praise.  The  lighter  periodi- 
cals were  sometimes  a  little  "superior,"  but  the 
authoritative  organs  were  earnest  and  cordial, 
and  in  no  less  powerful  a  pronouncement  than 
The  Spectator  s  the  construction  was  called  "mas- 
terly." The  Saturday  Review  repeated  that  Mr. 
Kent's  style  was  admirable;  and  The  Athenceum, 
and  The  Daily  Chronicle,  and  The  Times,  and 
every  paper  to  which  a  novelist  looks,  described 
him  as  a  realist  of  a  high  order. 

Delusions  die  hard,  and  the  bitter  reviewer, 
rending  the  talented  young  author's  book,  is  a 
companion  myth  to  the  sleepless  editor  poring 
indefatigably  over  illegible  manuscripts  in  quest 
of  new  talent.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  only 
to  his  reviewers  that  the  struggling  novelist  ever 


CYNTHIA  343 

i 
owes  a  "thank  you";  and  Kent  wrote  with  exul- 
tation and  confidence  under  the  stimulus  of  the 
encouragement  that  he  received.  The  Eye  of  the 
Beholder  did  not  sell  in  thousands — you  may  lead 
a  donkey  to  good  fiction,  but  you  cannot  make 
him  read — but  in  a  moderate  degree  it  was  a  suc- 
cess even  with  the  public ;  and  work  had  an  irre- 
sistible attraction  in  consequence. 

Nevertheless,  the  question  whether  Cynthia's 
attitude  was  not  perhaps  the  one  that  had  become 
most  natural  to  her  haunted  Kent  with  growing 
persistency.  Had  it  been  possible,  he  would  have 
asked  her.  He  found  himself  wishful  of  a  little 
tenderness  from  the  woman  who  had  once  wea- 
ried him — or  from  the  woman  who  had  sprung 
from  her.  She  was  merciful,  she  was  charming, 
she  drew  him  towards  her  strongly ;  but  she  talked 
to  him  as  a  sister  might  have  done.  The  sugges- 
tion of  a  honeymoon  in  their  rambles  now  tanta- 
lised him  by  its  illusiveness,  and  he  was  piqued  by 
the  feeling  that  their  intercourse  was  devoid  even 
of  the  incipient  warmth  of  courtship. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  the  book  that  he  was 
writing  might  be  dedicated  to  her,  and  the  idea 
pleased  him  vastly.  It  begot  several  other  ideas 
which  he  indulged.  Roses  were  transferred  from 
a  shop-window  to  Cynthia's  bosom,  and  he  sent 
to  town  for  a  story  that  she  had  said  she  would 


344s  CYNTHIA 

like  to  read.  Her  surprise  enchanted  him,  and  he 
wished,  as  her  gaze  rested  on  him,  that  he  could 
surprise  her  oftener.  The  thought  of  the  evening 
to  be  passed  beside  her  would  come  to  him  during 
the  day,  and  fill  him  with  impatience  to  realise 
the  picture  again.  Tea  was  no  sooner  finished 
than  they  put  on  their  hats,  to  wander  where 
their  humour  led  them.  Generally  they  returned 
at  sunset;  and  sometimes  they  returned  under 
the  stars.  Supper  would  be  awaiting  them,  and 
afterwards  they  sat  and  talked — or  dreamed,  by 
the  open  window — until,  all  too  early,  she  gave 
him  her  hand  and  said  "Good-night." 

His  heart  followed  her.  Surely  Kent  compre- 
hended that  the  feeling  that  she  awoke  in  him  was 
more  than  admiration,  more  than  pique,  was 
something  infinitely  different  from  the  calm  af- 
fection into  which  his  first  fancy  had  subsided. 
He  knew  that  the  conditions  that  she  had  imposed 
had  aroused  no  ephemeral  ardour,  but  had  illu- 
mined in  himself  as  vividly  as  in  her  a  develop- 
ment that  possession  had  left  obscure.  He  knew 
he  loved  her — he  loved  her,  and  he  was  unworthy 
of  her  love.  He  could  not  speak — that  was  for 
her — but  his  eyes  besought,  and  the  woman  read 
them.  She  made  no  sign.  So  speedily? — her 
pride  forbade  it.  Her  manner  towards  him  re- 
mained unchanged.     But  tenderness  tugged  at 


CYNTHIA  345 

her  pride,  and  joy  at  what  she  read  flooded  her 
soul. 

She  would  be  contemptible  to  condone  so  soon, 
she  told  herself.  He  would  never  know  how  he 
had  made  her  suffer — never  suspect  how  in  min- 
utes the  unutterable  recollection  that  she  had  hid- 
den for  his  sake  had  wrenched  and  tortured  her 
while  she  talked  to  him  so  easily ;  she  prayed  that 
he  never  might  know!  But  to  yield  at  his  first 
sigh,  because  he  looked  unhappy — how  could  she 
contemplate  it  ? 

Yet  was  his  unhappiness  her  sole  temptation? 
She  trembled.  Was  she  despicable  to  long  for 
his  arm  about  her  again?  Was  it  degraded  to 
feel  that  even  to-day 

In  July  Kent  was  lonelier  than  he  had  been 
hitherto.  His  wife  could  seldom  contrive  to  ac- 
company him  when  he  went  out,  and  the  excur- 
sions were  in  any  case  curtailed.  She  seemed  to 
care  less  for  walking,  and  there  were  little  tire- 
some things  that  demanded  her  attention,  or  to 
which,  at  least,  she  chose  to  give  it.  The  child 
missed  her,  when  he  woke  at  eight  o'clock,  if  she 
was  not  at  home  to  run  in  to  him;  she  wanted  to 
practise  on  the  wheezy  piano;  there  was  needle- 
work she  was  compelled  to  do — always  some- 
thing! 

The  first  time,  Kent  was  merely  disappointed, 


346  CYNTHIA 

and  came  back  early  in  low  spirits ;  but  after  the 
third  of  his  solitary  walks,  misgivings  oppressed 
him  with  double  weight.  She  was  indifferent — 
no  other  explanation  was  possible ;  she  was  indif- 
ferent, and  no  longer  chose  to  mask  it ! 

"You're  always  busy,"  he  told  her  at  last.  "I 
miss  you  dreadfully,  Cynthia.  Is  it  so  important 
that  what  you  are  doing  should  be  gone  on  with 
to-night?" 

"I  should  like  to  finish  it  to-night,"  she  said 
constrainedly — "yes.  I'm  sorry  you  miss  me,  but 
the  girl  is  clumsy  with  her  needle;  one  can't  ex- 
pect perfection." 

"Yesterday  something  else  prevented  you. 
You  have  only  been  out  with  me  once  this 
week." 

"Surely  more  than  that?"  she  said  calmly; 
"twice,  I  think?" 

"Once.  You  went  with  me  on  Tuesday. 
There's  all  day  for  the  boy,  Cynthia;  you  might 
spare  me  the  evening." 

She  bent  lower  over  the  pinafore,  engrossed 
by  it. 

"It  isn't  only  the  boy,  poor  little  chap !  What 
a  tyrant  you'd  make  him  out!  Yesterday  I 
didn't  feel  like  going;  I  was  up  to  my  eyes  in  a 
book." 

Kent  regarded  her  hungrily. 


CYNTHIA  347 

"I've  very  little  claim  on  you,  I  know;  but 
when  I  first  came " 

"  'Sh!"  she  said.  .  .  .  "What  a  mountain  out 
of  a  molehill!  If  I  haven't  been  with  you  since 
Tuesday,  we  must  have  our  walk  together  to- 
morrow." 

Kent  found  this  very  unsatisfactory.  It  was  a 
concession,  and  he  did  not  seek  her  society  as  a 
concession.  The  walk,  as  usual  latterly,  was 
short,  and  neither  had  the  air  of  enjoying  it  very 
much.  They  roamed  along  the  dusty  roads  for  the 
most  part  in  silence,  and  for  the  rest  with  plati- 
tudes. He  could  not  avoid  seeing  that  her  com- 
panionship was  reluctantly  accorded,  and  after 
their  return,  when  she  put  out  her  hand  in  the 
stereotyped  "Good-night,"  he  resolved  not  to  beg 
her  to  go  with  him  any  more. 

He  wasn't  without  a  hope  that,  by  refraining 
from  the  request,  he  might  move  her  to  gratitude ; 
but  her  avoidance  of  him  did  not  diminish,  and 
when  August  came,  he  questioned  whether  he 
ought  to  leave  her  for  a  while.  The  part  that 
she  had  allotted  to  herself  was  plainly  more  than 
she  could  sustain;  to  relieve  her  temporarily  of 
his  presence  might  be  the  most  considerate  plan 
he  could  adopt?  But  the  notion  repelled  him  vio- 
lently. Though  she  was  colder  and  ill  at  ease, 
she  enchained  him.    He  had  very  little,  and  that 


348  CYNTHIA 

little  he  was  loath  to  lose.  To  look  at  her  across 
the  room,  unobserved,  in  their  long  pauses  was 
not  charged  with  regret  only — the  bitterness  had 
an  indefinable  joy  as  well;  he  liked  to  note  the  ef- 
fect of  lamplight  on  her  profile  as  she  read,  took 
pleasure  in  her  grace  when  she  moved.  To  spare 
her  what  distress  he  could,  however,  was  his  duty 
— yes,  if  she  wished  it,  he  would  go !  He  debated, 
where  he  sat  smoking  by  the  window  one  evening, 
whether  she  would  wish  it  if  she  knew  how  dear 
she  had  grown  to  him;  whether  if  he  stammered 

to  her  something  of  his  remorse His  pain  had 

become  almost  intolerable. 

The  hour  was  very  still.  In  the  west,  on  the 
faint  azure,  some  smears  of  flame  colour  lingered ; 
then,  while  he  stared  out,  faded,  and  hung  in  the 
sky  like  curls  of  violet  smoke.  Over  the  myriad 
tints  of  green  came  the  low  whinny  of  a  horse. 
His  wife  sat  sewing  by  the  table,  and,  turning, 
he  watched  the  rhythmical  movement  of  her  hand. 
A  passionate  longing  assailed  him  to  free  his 
tongue  from  the  weight  that  hampered  it  and 
cry  to  her  he  loved  her,  though  she  might  not  care 
to  hear.  He  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and 
sauntered  nearer. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  smoke  any  more?"  she 
said. 

"Not  now;  I've  been  smoking  all  day." 


CYNTHIA  349 

"You  should  try  to  write  without." 

"I  ought  to — but  I  never  could." 

He  touched  the  muslin  on  her  lap  diffidently — 
it  was  on  her  lap. 

"What  are  you  making — another  pinafore?" 

"Yes.    Do  you  think  it's  pretty?" 

His  hand  lay  close  to  her  own ;  but  she  held  the 
garment  up  to  him,  and  perforce  he  drew  back. 

It  was  not  so  easy  to  voice  emotion  as  to  feel 
it.  Half  an  hour  crept  away;  shadows  filled  the 
room,  and  a  grey  peace  brooded  over  the  grass 
outside.  The  tones  deepened,  and  beyond  a  ridge 
of  blackened  boughs  the  moon  swam  up.  He  de- 
cided that  he  would  speak  after  supper.  But  af- 
ter supper,  when  she  resumed  her  sewing,  he  felt 
that  it  would  be  useless.  He  sat  by  the  hearth, 
holding  a  paper  that  he  did  not  read.  Presently 
the  landlady  was  heard  slipping  the  bolt  in  the 
passage,  and  Cynthia  pushed  her  basket  from  her, 
preparing  to  retire.  With  her  change  of  posi- 
tion, a  reel  escaped  and  rolled  to  the  fender.  Kent 
had  not  noticed  where  it  fell,  but  he  became  con- 
scious, with  a  tremor,  that  she  was  stooping  by 
his  side.  In  rising,  it  seemed  to  him  that  her  fig- 
ure brushed  his  arm  as  if  with  a  caress.  She  had 
drawn  apart  from  him  before  he  could  do  more 
than  wonder  if  it  had  been  accidental,  but  now  he 
watched  her  with  a  curious  intentness.    She  wan- 


350  CYNTHIA 

dered  about  the  room  a  little  aimlessly,  rightii. 
a  photograph,  settling  a  flower  in  a  glass  on  t; 
shelf.  Having  gathered  up  her  work,  she  hes 
tated,  and  sought  some  books;  when  she  h<'< 
chosen  them,  her  arms  were  full  and  she  could  n 
give  him  her  hand. 

But  she  did  not  say  "Good-night,"  either.  J 
she  passed  him  on  the  threshold,  her  face  w 
lifted,  and  for  a  moment  her  gaze  engulfed  hir 

When  he  dared  to  interpret  it,  Kent  sto 
shakenly  up  the  stairs.  The  way  was  dark;  b\ 
ahead — in  a  room  of  which  the  door  had  been  le 
ajar — his  eager  eyes  saw  Light. 


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